


This Fast, Unreasonable Spring

by hermette, i_claudia



Series: This Fast, Unreasonable Spring [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermette/pseuds/hermette, https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin was looking for something uncomplicated. Arthur was just looking to get paid. Neither of them expected to find the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Fast, Unreasonable Spring

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a 600 word comment fic for snottygrrl. It turned into two 600 word comment fics. Then, well, it turned into this. Much as hermette would like to blame this entire thing on i_claudia, the sad fact is that this was a joint venture into madness. And by joint venture, we mean we basically wrote the whole thing while reading over one another's shoulders. It was incredibly fun, especially when we got to trade poems and songs and make up Twilight jokes together, and if you enjoy reading this even half as much we enjoyed writing it, we'll consider it a success. Huge thanks go to miakun and amaberis for the fabulous beta job, and to ems for corralling our Americanisms. ♥!
> 
> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/43750.html). (22 December 2009)

Arthur isn't looking for someone to 'save' him, didn’t fall into this line of work because he has low self esteem or daddy issues. His daddy issues might fill books but they have nothing to do with his job. Arthur just likes sex. He likes fucking and being fucked with no strings attached, no expectations beyond immediate pleasure, and he's _good_ at it; hell, he's the best. He's certainly no ten quid side alley blow job -- if a punter wants him, they'd better be able to pay through the nose for the privilege.

Lance knows how he operates, screens all his clients thoroughly before he so much as gives them the time of day, let alone the going rates, which is why Arthur's newest john is so clearly a mix-up. The boy -- and he is a boy; Arthur would be surprised if he was a day over nineteen -- is scrawny, dressed in a too-baggy sweatshirt with holes at the seams of the sleeves. His hair is an unconditional disaster. He doesn’t look the type to go looking up high class prostitutes, let alone be able to afford them. He looks a little nervous and a lot scared, blue eyes wide in his thin face.

Some days, Arthur's job is a little bit worse than others.

He eyes the boy, speculative. Maybe he's just here to clean something or fix a leaky tap, he thinks hopefully. He ignores the fact that the management would never send anyone up here while he's working, as well as the fact that it's a penthouse suite which requires a key to make the lift go to the right floor. "You sure you’re in the right place?"

The kid swallows, nods with a jerk, his eyes fixed on where the top three buttons of Arthur's shirt are undone, and Arthur sighs internally. He's lounging artfully in a stately red armchair, arranged exactly right to show himself off, but it's clearly lost on this punter. Arthur's never questioned Lance before, but he's already composing a long and detailed complaint, starting with how he's probably Lance's best worker and ending with demanding to know how the fuck that status means he gets skinny, badly-dressed kids who are clearly either here on a dare or have serious issues which they need to take to a _psychiatrist_ , not to Arthur.

Still, the kid must have the money for it, or be getting the money from somewhere, enough to pay for Arthur's time until morning, and Arthur isn't comfortable enough to turn away that kind of cash. And besides, staying Lance's best worker means sometimes he has to take shitty jobs along with the good ones. He allows himself one final moment of wallowing, then sinks himself into the job at hand. A client is a client, and Arthur is the best for a reason.

"Emrys, right?" he asks, his voice silky, almost caressing the syllables of the name Lance had given him, and the kid bobs his head in another silent nod. "Would you like something to drink? Something to... relax you?"

"Um," Emrys says, and his voice squeaks a little as he says it. "I guess? Please?"

Arthur sighs to himself again and slowly lifts himself out of the chair, conscious of the way Emrys's eyes are tracking his every move. It’s going to be a long, boring night.

:::

It isn’t. God, Arthur doesn’t know where this boy came from or what he’s been doing, but he’s _damn_ good in bed. He knows exactly how to touch, knows how to drag his tongue along Arthur's skin until Arthur shivers with pleasure, knows when to ease off and when to thrust in, hard and punishing and exactly right. Arthur can’t remember the last time he enjoyed work this much, or the last time a punter gave him a real screaming orgasm.

More than that, though, Arthur is caught off-guard by the way Emrys gives every thought in his head away freely, every emotion that passes through his body. No one comes to a prostitute to be themselves. They come to get away from their lives, to break the rules a little bit or experiment or just have sex with someone they won't have to take out to breakfast in the morning. Emrys is different; there's something real, something true about him that catches at Arthur's interest with little hooks, pulling him in. He wants to know more about Emrys, learn the curves and dimples of him, the light places and darknesses behind those eyes, and he devotes himself to exploring as much of Emrys as possible, tracing patterns into Emrys's skin and memorising each delicious sound he makes.

Emrys leaves when the sun comes up, the angles of his body oddly beautiful in the rosy light. He’s pulling on the awful sweatshirt again, covering the marks Arthur bit into his chest, and Arthur knows it’s irrational and stupid but he wants to throw the hideous grey thing out the window, wrap the man in silk sheets and nothing else.

Arthur watches from the bed as Emrys laces up his trainers, too comfortable to think about moving yet.

"What’s your name?" Arthur asks, impulsive, feeling reckless after a night of amazing sex. According to Lance and the paperwork his name is Emrys, but one of the first things Arthur learned in this business is that no one ever gives their real name. He knows he shouldn’t ask. It’s a cardinal rule he's breaking, but Arthur wants to know more than he cares about the rules.

He doesn't think too hard about _why_ he wants to know.

Emrys looks at Arthur, catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “Merlin,” he says softly, and Arthur rolls the unfamiliar syllables around in his mouth, testing them out. _Merlin_.

Arthur walks Merlin to the door -- a first for him -- and in an astonishing display of spur-of-the-moment stupidity, pins Merlin against the frame, holding his chin with one hand while he takes his last taste of Merlin's soft mouth. When he pulls back, Merlin's eyes are dazed and his lips are red and shiny, bruised. He reaches up, runs his fingers almost shyly through Arthur's hair.

Merlin opens his mouth, almost speaks before he thinks better of it and ducks his head, turns to leave. Arthur wants to chase him down and kiss him again, drag him back to bed and retrace the map of his body, but instead he pulls his dressing gown tighter around himself and closes the door. There’s work to do today, after all.

:::

The first time it happens, he's sitting in a shop eating greasy fish and chips, a day-old newspaper spread out in front of him. He happens to glance up in time to see a mop of unruly dark hair and a tattered hoody disappear around the corner. He's on his feet and out the door before he even thinks to consider his actions. No matter though; by the time he's in the street, no one is around. With a shaky laugh at himself, at his own foolishness, he walks back into the shop. He sits down and finishes his beer, one eye on the window.

The second, third and fourth times happen in a pub, a flower shop, and the park. A head of coffee-dark hair and Arthur is reduced to a bundle of nervous energy for no reason that he can decipher. Two weeks pass. He fucks six clients, one of them twice, and resolves to put aside whatever it is that's driving him so crazy. He's so determined, so set on his course, that he's not in any way prepared -- not that he could possibly be so -- when he steps in to a bookshop to buy the last Harry Potter book and slams into Merlin, sending him sprawling, a bag of books spilling everywhere.

"Fuck," says Merlin, wincing, flat on his back. It takes Arthur four full seconds to recognise him and by that time he's already bent down beside him, gathering up the books. Recognition strikes them both at the exact same moment and they freeze, hands clutching the same cheap paperback.

"Oh god," says Merlin, and he flushes deeply. He tugs the book out of Arthur's hands and shoves it back into the bag.

He looks... older, somehow. Maybe it's the fact that his hair is actually combed or that his arms are stuffed with books or that he's not shuffling his feet, head bent low with something like embarrassment. It's setting Arthur's nerves on edge, his blood roaring in his ears. It's everything he can do to not give Merlin's shoulder a little shove, get him back on his back and stretch out over that impossible body.

"Merlin," he says, his voice hoarse to his own ears.

Merlin glances up, startled. "You remember my name?"

"I -- I don't -- usually--" He's babbling. God, he can't remember the last time he babbled, can't remember the last time he felt nervous. The last time someone _made_ him nervous. But Merlin is moving, he's gathering up his books and standing, he's _leaving_.

"Wait!" Arthur says, panicked. "Merlin, hang on." He catches him at the door, two fingers hooked into the edge of his light jacket, zipped against the chill of the March night. "Wait a second."

Merlin glances down the street, and then meets Arthur's gaze. "Please--"

"I thought you might call."

Merlin laughs. "One night."

"What?"

"That's what I could... you aren't exactly cheap, Arthur."

His name, on those lips. Arthur needs to hear it again.

"I thought we had a good time."

"We did. But I'm, Arthur, I'm a _student_. I can't -- and anyway, do we have to have this conversation here?"

Arthur lets go of his jacket and wraps his fingers around Merlin's slim wrist. The pulse there is fluttering wildly. "Where do you want --"

"I don't," says Merlin. He yanks his arm from Arthur's grasp and is ten feet down the street when Arthur shouts "Discounts!"

Merlin pauses. He turns slowly. "Discounts?"

"Yeah." Arthur strides over to him. "For ... repeat business."

Merlin swallows; Arthur sees his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He wants to lean in and suck a bruise there that won't fade for weeks.

"I'm -- I'm not--"

Arthur can see the play of emotions across Merlin's face and wonders if this man has ever been able to keep a secret in his life. It would be funny if Arthur wasn't creeping in on desperation; money is the very last thing on his mind.

"Look," he says. "I'm the one asking. That's ... we'll work something out." He grabs Merlin's wrist again, rubbing slow circles into his damp palm.

Merlin sways toward him, eyes blinking wildly. Then he takes a deep breath and walks off. Panic, icy cold, claws at Arthur's stomach and he's on the verge of making a total arse of himself when he realises that Merlin isn't headed in the direction he was headed a moment ago, that he's gone past Arthur, in the direction of Arthur's suite.

Arthur spins on his heel and hurries to catch up with Merlin. He falls into step beside him, casting a glace at his face, set and determined in the dim evening light and god, he's really fucking gorgeous right now, dark hair nearly blue under night's cover. Arthur swallows hard and turns his face away from Merlin's, heart threatening to beat right off his chest. The terror of Merlin saying no has been replaced by the terror of him actually saying _yes_. And Arthur can't remember the last time he fucked someone just because he wanted to. This is uncharted, uncertain. He's used to a set of preordained rules that keep him boxed in and keep everyone else out. But Merlin... Arthur has the unsettling feeling that Merlin could peel off all his layers and put them back on in the right order.

But none of that really matters to Arthur as they walk down the street, Merlin's breath coming a little fast and unsteady, their arms brushing one another. He can feel the heat from Merlin's skin, and he's about to take back everything he ever said about not being a back alley blow job. He doesn't even need an alley, just a shadow -- a sturdy lamppost, for that matter -- and he's going to be on his knees.

"Merlin," he says, grappling for his arm and coming up with his sleeve again. "Merlin."

"We're nearly--" Merlin says, grabbing Arthur's elbow and propelling him forward. After what seems like ages, they reach the hotel. Merlin nearly drags him into the lift and starts shoving his hands in Arthur's pockets. It takes both of them working together to get the key card in and the appropriate button for Arthur's floor pushed, but the moment they do, Arthur shoves Merlin up against the wall and slams their mouths together. He feels unhinged, half out of his mind as he yanks and pulls at Merlin's clothes, trying to get to skin.

"Christ," says Merlin, his fingers tugging at Arthur's tie. "I want -- let me--"

"Yeah," says Arthur, and he yanks at Merlin's jacket. Neither of them are willing to let go of the other though, and when the lift finally dings to signal its arrival, they nearly trip over one another trying to get inside.

"God," says Merlin, abandoning his attempts at Arthur's tie and simply pulling his shirt free of his trousers. "You are so... you feel --"

The slam into the walls a few times on their way to the room and the bed, leaving a trail of wrinkled and half ruined clothes in their wake. When they finally make it to the bed, both of them stripped bare, Arthur shoves Merlin down on top of the satin sheets and climbs on top of him, bracketing his hips with his own knees, and sweeps his hands in broad circles over Merlin's flushed chest. Merlin arches up into the touch, his breath coming in a soft _ah, ah, ah_ that's driving Arthur mad.

"What do you--" he says, rocking his hips and dragging his cock alongside Merlin's. "How do you--"

"You feel so good," Merlin replies, his voice barely more than a groan. His hands are scrambling over the sheets, clenching and unclenching, and Arthur stops what he's doing to grab those fingers and tangle them in his own.

"Merlin," he says, and then " _Merlin_ " again, louder this time. Merlin's eyes snap open, his pupils blown wide, and Arthur recognises the look in them: utter panic.

"It's all right," he says, lowering his body down slowly to cover Merlin. "It's all right."

"Arthur," Merlin chokes out, and then, in an unlikely manoeuvre, rolls them over and pins Arthur to the bed. And it wouldn't take anything at all for Arthur to roll them back, but he doesn't. He's captivated by the sight of the man above him, wild and breathless and more than a little desperate, taking his pleasure in Arthur's body. His eyes are closed, his mouth slack, a flush spreading all over his chest as he thrusts against Arthur, each movement dragging Arthur ever closer to his orgasm.

"We should-" Merlin pants. "Condom, do you--"

"Yeah." Arthur's fingers are digging into Merlin's wiry arms, his body bowed under the force of Merlin's thrusts. "But--"

"Where--"

Arthur groans and reaches for Merlin's arse, a futile attempt to slow his rhythm. "Fuck, you feel so good."

"We should--"

"I know," Arthur grinds out, as if he needs any lessons on safe sex. He reaches down and wraps a hand around both their cocks, triumph flaring in his stomach when Merlin's rhythm falters. "I just want to feel you."

Merlin moans a little and his head falls forward onto Arthur's shoulder. His breath is a quick, hot burst against the skin there and Arthur turns his head, catching Merlin's earlobe with his teeth.

"I've been thinking about you," he murmurs, and Merlin whimpers. "Couldn't stop."

" _Arthur._ "

"Have you--" he says, before pressing his mouth into a thin line. This is not him, this is not what he does. He takes money for sex, that's it. He never asks for anything else from his clients. But in this, right now, Merlin feels like anything but a client and Arthur feels nothing like a hooker. He feels desperate, on fire, like he's something outside of himself. And panic is creeping in at the edges, so when Merlin says "Let me fuck you," Arthur is almost relieved. This he can deal with, this he understands. He scrambles away from Merlin long enough to grab lube and a handful of condoms from the bedside table, then settles back onto the huge downy pillows and presses slick fingers between his legs.

"How do you want me?"

"I--" Merlin swallows hard, his eyes flickering over Arthur's body. "I -- can I just--"

"Anything."

He opens a condom and sits up to roll it down Merlin's cock, eyes locked on his face. Then he lies back, heart pounding as Merlin knee-walks up the length of the bed and positions himself between Arthur's spread thighs. He presses in, just a little, and Arthur feels his eyes roll back in his head.

"Come on, Arthur," says Merlin, and he, with surprising gentleness, positions Arthur's legs around his own hips and fits his hands to the small of Arthur's back. "Stay with me."

And fuck, _fuck_ , then he presses in, a long slow slide, delicious pressure and Arthur is arching up into his touch. Fourteen days and seven fucks have dulled Arthur's memory somehow, but with the first roll of his hips it all comes crashing back, this delicious rhythm of Merlin's, the way he knows just where to position his thrusts. He tries to match him, but Merlin is holding him too closely, clutching him, like he wants to climb inside his body and wear his skin like an overcoat.

It's slow going, and that suits Arthur just fine. He thinks he could die a happy man if he never had to get out of this bed, never be further away from this man than he is right now. When Merlin finally does come, it seems to take them both by surprise; a gasp, and then Merlin's fingers biting into his hips. He stills, shudders, his mouth a wet kiss against Arthur's collarbone.

After several breathless moments, he rolls over again, taking Arthur with him. "Help me," he says, holding up his hand to Arthur's mouth and Arthur, achingly hard now, Merlin's cock slipping out of him, obliges messily, sucking those long fingers into his mouth and licking a broad path against his palm. Then, with unerring accuracy, Merlin wraps his hand around Arthur's cock and brings him off in six strokes, Arthur's head hanging forward heavily, leaving thick white splashes against Merlin's chest.

Eventually, Arthur gets up and finds a flannel. He wets it and brings it, along with a glass of water, to Merlin, who grins a bit sheepishly and wipes his stomach down, then drains the water in one.

"I could really go for a cuppa," he says and Arthur bursts into laughter.

"Sorry, no tea."

"No tea? You can't be serious."

"This isn't really--" Arthur waves his hand around vaguely. "I don't actually live here or anything."

"You don't?" Merlin pushes himself up and looks around. Arthur follows his gaze around the room. It's nice, but it's just a room.

"This is just... I work here."

"Your office."

Arthur exhales a laugh. "Yeah."

"Sorry. I thought--"

"What? That because I'm a hooker I live in a hotel?"

"No." Merlin shakes his head. "Arthur--"

But he doesn't want that between them right now, doesn't want to be a hooker, doesn't want Merlin to be a client.

"Stay the night."

Merlin gives him an incomprehensible look. "I can't."

"If it's money--"

"No, it isn't. I just--"

But he doesn't want to hear what Merlin is going to say, can't bear whatever excuse he's come up with, so he climbs into his lap and tunnels his fingers into that thick hair, tipping Merlin's head back and licking into his mouth, mapping the topography of his body with his hands. When Merlin falls back onto the bed, taking Arthur with him, he knows he's won. He presses a kiss to the hollow beneath Merlin's eye, his cheek, the soft skin below his ear.

"Stay," he whispers.

Merlin stays.

:::

Arthur wakes the next morning to an ache in his hips, a cold bed, and a note from Merlin.

Lecture at 9:00

M

\--and below that, what must be his mobile number, which is ballsy, and Arthur likes that. Grateful, not for the first time, for the hotel's laundry service, he gets up and wanders around the suite picking up yesterday's now fantastically creased clothing. He gets dressed and walks the few blocks back to his flat and lets himself in.

He leaves the note on the table while he showers, but it somehow winds up back in his pocket when he leaves again to run errands and go to his one appointment of the day. He folds and refolds it all day, decides to bin it while he's picking up some milk on his way home, but by the time he reaches his flat he's reconsidered. Lance will kill him, Arthur knows. Lance will probably make his death slow and painful and hide his body so well no one will ever find it, but Arthur doesn't care about that as much as he should when he remembers Merlin's soft breathing, the look Merlin had given him when he thought Arthur was refusing him tea.

The fact that he's even _considering_ calling Merlin is, quite frankly, preposterous. Appalling. If Arthur had a thousand lifetimes to live, he'd probably still run out of time to list the reasons why this is a horrible, horrible idea. But he'd start with the fact that he doesn't even _know_ Merlin. So, okay, maybe there was some sort of strange connection between them almost from the very beginning, something that had drawn Arthur in, but then, Arthur has chemistry with lots of people. It's sort of his job. And so the sex was amazing. Mind blowing actually, which, Arthur thinks, is saying something. But it was just sex. And Arthur is a professional. But... but then there was the way Merlin had giggled as they made their way though the Yellow Pages in search of a place that would deliver ("Make sure they have tea," Merlin had said. "Please, for the love of God.") and how the only place they could find was dodgy Chinese with Moo Shu Pork that turned out to be so good Merlin had threatened to roll around naked in it. And then -- Arthur felt his smile go soft at the thought of Merlin, vulnerable in sleep, one pale hand tucked under his chin, and of how he kept edging into Arthur's heat and how, fascinated, Arthur had kept inching backward just to see Merlin's body seek his own, until finally he had fallen off the bed with a tremendous amount of noise. And how Merlin had awoken in a tangle of blankets and then collapsed in a heap of laughter, and how Arthur had pounced on him, kissing him and kissing him until they were both breathless.

Maybe, Arthur ponders, if he doesn't think about the horrible consequences, only good things will happen. Positive thinking does wonders.

Of course, he still has to call Merlin. He sits and spreads the note out in front of him and punches in Merlin's number, but before he hits 'send' he loses his nerve. What's he going to say? _Hey it's Arthur, that hooker you hired; wanna go on a date_?

He dials the number twice more, programs it into his mobile and then deletes it, and gets up to pace around his flat for a while. Finally, he tells himself in a tone that sounds eerily reminiscent of his father that Merlin left his number for a reason, and that reason was obviously for Arthur to call him. He sits back down, picks up his phone, and dials the number with a determined look. If it all goes to hell, at least he can say he wasn't a chicken about it.

:::

Merlin had never intended it to go this far. The break-up was horrific, messy, the kind of thing he'd thought only happened in soap operas and particularly awful movies, but he'd thought it'd be only a matter of time before he was back on his feet. Two years of his life wasted, but so many more in front of him; he's young and not hideously unattractive, after all, and this hurt too will pass in time.

What he hadn't counted on was the fact that while his _brain_ may think he is over Matthew completely, the rest of him hasn't quite caught up yet. When he catches sight of Matthew across campus, already wrapped around some new sparkly twink, his heart gives a painful lurch toward his throat at the same time that a yawning hole opens under his stomach, and he's very nearly sick in the nearest bin because that's _his_ smile Matthew's giving the twink; that's the smile he'd always reserved especially for Merlin when Merlin was at his lowest. To see it directed at someone else is a harder blow to take than he thought.

So he does what he always does when life goes particularly sour: he visits Lance. He very briefly considers going to Will instead, but his flatmate has made no secret of the depths of his loathing for Matthew, and Merlin doesn't really want to hear about how Will had always known Matthew was scum and that if Merlin had only _listened_ to him, none of this would have happened. Merlin knows Will's probably right, but it's not what he needs to hear right now, or maybe ever.

Lance is a nice guy, and he lives within walking distance of Merlin's uni in a quietly upscale flat with flower boxes in his windows and a tiny balcony with cedar planters where he grows his own herbs. He favours charcoal gray suit trousers and colourful ties, and if Merlin had passed him in the street he would never in a hundred years have guessed that Lance finances his flat and his shameless love for expensive pots and pans by running an agency that charges for sex by the hour. He probably still wouldn't know, except that Lance believes firmly in honesty and openness between friends, and once he'd figured out Merlin was going to be sticking around for a while, he'd been pretty frank about the fact that he's a pimp.

"Please," Lance always says when Merlin calls him that, looking incredibly long-suffering. "I run a perfectly respectable _escort service_."

Whatever. All Merlin knows is that Lance is maybe the only available shoulder he can cry on right now without worrying about "told you so"s or aggravated assault, and will probably make him something gourmet and chocolate to boot.

Lance is appropriately incensed on Merlin's behalf, and squeezes his shoulder and sits him down on a stool at the kitchen counter while he putters around opening cabinets and assembling ingredients. On the whole, Merlin's pretty glad he thought to come to Lance, because Lance didn't know Matthew very well so it's easier for him to point out that Matt's been a total arsehole about everything, and that Merlin can do a lot better than him, without making Merlin feel like even more of a pathetic idiot. Merlin gives Lance a watery smile and lays his cheek down on the marble worktop while Lance tells him there are far better fish in the sea who will love Merlin properly, and that Matthew was clearly mentally deranged. Lance is too sweet to be a real human being; he's probably some kind of alien life form or a robot. It's a good thing he's seven years older than Merlin and engaged to Gwen, who is kind and lovely and lets Merlin borrow her old textbooks when he needs them, or Merlin would be in serious danger of ill-advised rebound sex with one of his best friends.

"Budge up," Lance tells him, and when Merlin lifts his head, Lance slides a plate of steaming pasta in front of him. Merlin peers at it a little suspiciously. "Noodles?" he asks. "I was kind of hoping for chocolate."

"That is my own homemade pesto sauce," Lance tells him. "And if it does not make your taste buds want to tap dance across the room with feather boas and glitter, there is something seriously wrong with you, my friend."

"Freak," Merlin mutters, but he tries the pesto anyway. It turns out to be pretty damn good after all, and he hasn't really eaten much of anything except coffee in a few days, so in the end he devours the whole plate all in about two minutes flat.

Lance watches him with a knowing look. "Better?"

Merlin wants to lie and say it was terrible, but Lance is touchy about his cooking and there's no guarantee Merlin won't get himself thrown out if he insults the pesto, even if his heart _is_ broken.

"Yeah," he says, and then he has to put his head down again because God, his heart really is broken, or at least a little cracked, even if he knows Matthew was probably the worst person on the entire planet for him to date.

"Hey," Lance says, putting his hand on Merlin's head and tousling his hair gently. "You were always too good for him."

Merlin rolls his head to the side so he can look up at Lance, still miserable. "I know," he says. "I do know that. It's just... hard." He thinks about Matthew leaving him messages on his phone, his voice warm and quiet like they were sharing a secret, remembers Matthew's face close to his own, the smell of his aftershave wrapping around Merlin like a favourite blanket.

He remembers walking in, too; remembers coming home to his flat at the end of a long, horrible day to find too many naked limbs and Matthew's unrepentant stare -- _this is the way I am, Merlin, can't you accept that? Can't you just love me for who I am?_ \-- remembers the numb shock and the sound his keys had made when he dropped them on the floor. He can't remember the other guy's face, but maybe that's for the best. That one had been blond; the next one he thinks had brown hair, and by the time he'd walked in on the third, Merlin had just walked right back out without bothering to look all that closely.

Lance is still stroking his hair, and if Merlin closes his eyes he can imagine it's his mother, that he's still at home, never went to uni or decided it would be a great idea to get his Master's by talking too much about Chaucer and his bloody Canterbury tales, never met Matthew or sacrificed his own principles because of something he thought was love.

He draws a shuddery breath, and Lance pats his shoulder. "It'll take a while," he tells Merlin absently. "It'll be like crawling over broken glass and it'll suck like nothing's ever sucked before, but things will get better. They always do."

Merlin's pretty sure Lance has more gems like that to deliver, but before he can impart any more wisdom upon Merlin, his phone rings. "Sorry," Lance apologises. "Duty calls."

"Yeah, yeah," Merlin mumbles into the counter top, and listens while Lance answers the phone, his voice smooth and professional as he walks out of the kitchen to his office down the hall. It's still weird, knowing what Lance does for a living, but Merlin guesses it'd be even weirder if Lance wasn't the one running the agency. Maybe they wouldn't even be friends, Merlin thinks. He doesn't know any prostitutes, so he doesn't really know what they're like, but he has a picture in his head of impossibly skinny, leggy men and women wearing too much eyeshadow and tight leather pants and probably red lipstick. It's a little frightening.

He wonders idly if Lance actually had been a hooker, somewhere along the line. It's one way to break into the industry, he supposes, but he can't picture Lance in leather _anything_. It hurts his head to try. He can see Lance wearing a little bit of eyeliner, though, and working a classy party or something. Lance was probably a really good hooker, Merlin thinks, high end, and suddenly he's struck by the idea of Lance in a nice suit, smiling at a faceless someone from across a glass of red wine; Lance in the back of a car somewhere, snogging a client against the leather seat. It's much less frightening than the lipstick and way more...

"Oh my God," he says out loud, sitting straight up, because he is _brilliant_. Lance's agency wouldn't employ anyone creepy, Merlin knows; Lance is basically the least-creepy guy Merlin's ever met, and he probably only agrees to pimp really classy hookers. And it's not like Merlin has to have sex with anyone. A prostitute is supposed to fulfill people's fantasies, right? All Merlin wants is to spend time with someone who isn't going to hide things from him or stab him in the back sixteen times, maybe kiss a little bit. He misses being able to come home and snog someone on the couch, and a hooker isn't going to fix that but maybe it'll help him feel a little less broken apart. He'll spend an evening with someone beautiful and feel like maybe he isn't the gristle of humanity that the world chewed up and spat out in disgusted rejection, and he'll know neither of them are looking for more than one good night, so there's no possible way he can be hurt by it.

The plan is _flawless_ , except now he has to talk Lance around.

"No," Lance says when Merlin asks. "Absolutely _not_."

"Why not?" Merlin asks, hunching his shoulders stubbornly. "I have money saved up; I can pay for it. I'm pretty sure I can, anyway," he amends, trying to remember exactly how much he has squirrelled away in his bank account right now.

Lance runs a hand over his face and sighs. "Merlin, rebound sex is bad enough. Rebound sex with an escort is a singularly terrible idea."

"More terrible than me dating--" he chokes, still can't say the name. "Come on, Lance, please. I'm not looking for _Pretty Woman_ here. I just want one night where I'm free to be with someone without worrying if they're going to string me along."

"You can get that without doing this," Lance objects. "Merlin, look at you: you're handsome and smart and funny. Someone is going to come along and realise you're the one."

"I thought I had the one," Merlin says, clenching one hand into a fist under the counter. "Lance, look, I know there are other guys out there. I'm not ready for them yet, though. I'm not ready to date them or go out to dinner with them or even just see a movie. Let me have this, okay? Let me have one night."

Lance's frown gets even more pronounced, and Merlin scowls back. "I pulled you out from in front of a bus," he says, and he knows it's underhanded, bringing up how they met, because he'd sworn he'd never use that against Lance, but he's got his back against a wall here and Lance isn't giving this up easily. "You'd be dead if it weren't for me. And if you don't help me, I'll go somewhere else. I'll just -- I don't know, stand on a corner somewhere and wait."

"You will _not_ ," Lance orders, and he's angry now, Merlin can tell, but he's lost the righteous stiffness in his shoulders. "Jesus, Merlin -- fine. _Fine_. My boys are clean, and at least they won't mug you and leave you in an alley. Though maybe you deserve it, if you're this determined to be stupid."

Merlin smiles, and Lance turns away, leaves the kitchen and returns with a stack of papers. Merlin stares at them and then at Lance in surprise, and Lance's eyebrows lower threateningly. "If you're doing this, you're doing it my way," he says. "The contract is non-negotiable."

Merlin signs on a dozen different dotted lines and pretends to read the clauses he's supposed to take particular note of, and finally they're finished and he's heading out the door. "Merlin," Lance calls after him; Merlin pauses and turns to look back at him. Lance still looks unhappy, and Merlin feels a little guilty about that, but not enough to regret this. "Promise me you aren't going to do anything stupid." The way he says it, it's more an order than a request.

"Yeah," Merlin tells him. "Yeah, I promise."

:::

This probably qualifies as incredibly, terrifically stupid, Merlin thinks, watching the slow rise and fall of Arthur's chest and trying to resist the urge to reach out and brush his fingertips along the curve of Arthur's jaw. He's slept with one of Lance's hookers twice now; once, he suspects, not on company time, since Arthur didn't really seem to care if he paid.

It's been two weeks since that first night, and Merlin has spent more of his waking hours -- and sleeping hours, for that matter -- thinking of Arthur, of his mouth and his hands, the way he tossed his head back when he came, something like a scream tearing from his throat. Only a combination of shame, fear of Lance and a shocking decline in his bank balance have kept Merlin from doing something horrible, like sitting in the hotel lobby and just _waiting_. Perhaps he should have been a little more specific with Lance, made it a little clearer what he was looking for. Not anyone ugly, obviously, but certainly not someone who looks like Arthur, who with his so clearly calculated silky voice had broken through all of Merlin's defenses in no time at all, had had him pinned against the bed before he could blink.

"Oh my god," Merlin mutters. Arthur makes a sleepy noise and Merlin claps his hand over his own mouth. It's nearly morning, probably time for him to get up and get dressed, to sneak out before Arthur wakes up and the whole thing gets embarrassing.

His clothes are a scattered line between the bed and the door, and Merlin gathers them up and sneaks into the bathroom to get dressed in the dark. When he's done, he casts one last look at Arthur, small somehow amid the downy white pillows and the enormous duvet. Before he can stop himself, he grabs a piece of the hotel stationery from the huge wooden desk and scrawls a note to Arthur, laying it carefully on the pillow beside him. He hesitates, just for a moment, and then runs his fingertips down Arthur's cheek.

"Sleep well," he whispers, and then he hurries to the door before he can change his mind and shuts it softly behind him.

He showers as soon as he gets home, washing away the smell of Arthur because the urge to press his nose against his own skin and breathe him in is both overwhelming and mortifying. He gets dressed and lies in his bed; he should get up and go to his lecture, not that it would do him any good. His thoughts are splintered in about a thousand different directions, and not one of them has anything to do with literature. Eventually, he hears Will start moving around. Merlin gets up, gives himself a stern talking to about acting as if he hasn't just spent an amazing night with a hooker, and then spends several hours getting his arse kicked at Mario Kart.

"You're in a good mood," Will says finally, when lunch is just a bread crust and an empty bag of crisps.

"Just glad to be spending time with you," Merlin replies, reaching over to ruffle Will's hair.

"Oi, get off, you're gonna make me crash."

After the next trouncing, Will says, "You aren't seeing that arsehole, are you?"

Merlin frowns. "Who?"

"Matthew."

"Oh. Oh, God, no."

"Good. Wait, are you seeing another arsehole?"

"Come on, now, William, you know you're the only arsehole I have time for."

Will rolls his eyes. "You're a laugh a minute, you are." Then he glances at his watch and says, "Ah, bugger, I've got to go. I need to go to the lab for a few hours."

"You're leaving me?"

"Stay here and brush up on your car handling skills," Will says, putting his keys in his pocket and tugging his jacket on. "It's not even fun to beat you anymore."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

Will grins and says, "See you later, arsehole," and shuts the door behind him just as Merlin's mobile rings. He digs it out of his pocket. He doesn't recognise the number, but he answers it anyway, absolutely not hoping it's going to be Arthur. "Hello?"

"Hi, Merlin?" Arthur's voice is unmistakable, and Merlin lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Hi."

"It's Arthur."

Merlin runs his fingers along a long scratch in the low table in front of their telly and says, "Hi, Arthur."

"You left me your number."

"Yes," Merlin agrees.

"Why'd you leave your number?"

"Er," Merlin says, thrown, but Arthur doesn't give him a chance to explain that he'd been temporarily insane and to please burn the paper as soon as possible.

"I'm hoping you left it so I could call you and take you out to coffee or something."

"Um, coffee?" Merlin winces even before the words are fully out of his mouth. He isn't normally a complete social idiot; what is it about Arthur that destroys his ability to think clearly?

"Or pizza," Arthur adds hurriedly. "Something? I'm flexible."

Merlin bites back the helpless giggle that tries to bubble up in the back of his throat and nods, before realising Arthur is on the phone and can't actually see him. "Yeah, sure. That'd be -- yeah. Great." He clamps his mouth shut before he can embarrass himself any more and hopes Arthur doesn't hang up on him for being an incoherent mess.

"Brilliant. There's a place I know that's pretty close, they make the best crust I've ever had."

Arthur gives him directions and Merlin manages to put together a few more sentences that make grammatical sense before they hang up. He stares at his mobile for a moment, a little shocked. He's going for pizza with Arthur, and there are so many things wrong with that situation he's not sure he can count them all. Still, it only takes him a few seconds to decide _sod it all_ and make a dash for his room. He has two shirts that could be considered nice, in that they have no holes, and he's pretty sure they're both filthy.

"Date tonight?" Will asks when he comes home two hours later and walks in on Merlin trying to dry a shirt in the oven. "You're going to set the place on fire, you know."

"Shut up, you're the one who does that," Merlin snaps back. "And no, it's just... a study thing. Exchanging ideas and complaining about our supervisors, that sort of thing."

"If you say so." Will watches Merlin for a minute longer, grinning broadly. "You want to borrow one of my shirts?"

"You're a lifesaver, Will, _please_."

:::

Pizza goes well, well enough to lead to coffee the next day and Indian two days after that. And that's great, but Arthur's glad when pizza night with Merlin turns into a weekly event. He likes seeing Merlin against the red plastic of the booth, likes that they can order a pizza and beer and lean back while they talk, likes that it feels as if they've known each other for years. The irony of it isn't lost on him, that they've done this all backwards, but he likes it, likes being able to take the time and absorb Merlin, the angles of his cheekbones and the way his hands fly in five different directions when he gets excited about things.

One night, when Arthur is running late, he get to the restaurant to find Merlin hunched over his laptop, clacking away furiously. He doesn't even speak in greeting, just lifts a hand and returns to his typing. After a few moments, he grins and snaps his computer shut and starts rambling about some bit of something he found in the library that day, and while it's always amusing to listen to Merlin ramble excitedly about the _library_ of all places, Arthur has a more pressing concern.

"What is this?" he says, pointing at the table.

Merlin quirks an eyebrow. "Pizza," he says slowly, as if speaking to someone very dim.

"I mean this green stuff."

"Peppers."

Arthur wrinkles his nose. "What's it doing on my pizza?"

"Being delicious."

"I don't eat green stuff on pizza."

With a long suffering sigh, Merlin reaches across the table and picks off the offending peppers. "There," he says. "You are so high maintenance."

Arthur grins into his beer.

:::

"A film?"

"Yes, a film."

"What do you--"

"A film," Arthur says again. "It's like the telly only much--" and here he holds his arms out wide, "much bigger. And you go to a cinema. And sometimes there is popcorn, which is like--"

Merlin hurls his shoe at Arthur's head.

"I know what a film is, you prat, I just--" He lets his gaze wander over Arthur's body, sprawled out on Merlin's bed, the paper spread out beside him and a half-eaten tube of Smarties on his chest. They've spent the afternoon alternately snogging on the bed and then retreating to their own spaces so that Merlin can write and Arthur can flip lazily through the paper. Merlin has done as much as he can on this section for now though, and has designs on getting back into the bed and finishing what they've been playing at all afternoon. "Now? You want to go to a film now?"

"What's wrong with now?"

And nothing is _wrong_ exactly, but... "Are we done on the bed?"

Arthur tosses his head back on the pillow and laughs and laughs until Merlin starts to get really offended. Then he throws the paper aside and hauls Merlin onto the bed and into his arms.

"I"ll make you a deal," he says, reaching up to smooth Merlin's hair off his forehead. "What if I give you a really fantastic hand job? Then will you take me to a film?"

Merlin sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But nothing with vampires."

"Fine," Arthur agrees as he rolls over and presses Merlin into the sheets.

:::

"Haven't seen you around much, mate," Will says one morning while Merlin has his head in the fridge, looking for the orange juice he knows was in there two days ago.

"I've been busy," he says vaguely. "Lots of research." He neglects to mention that the research isn't related to his thesis at all, that the only lines he's been looking up are those of Arthur's body when he stretches, that the only details Merlin's concerned with memorising are the soft curve of Arthur's smile and the impatient way he brushes his fringe out of his eyes.

He doesn't really know why he hasn't told Will yet -- it's the longest he's ever gone without telling Will something like this; they've been roommates since uni and best friends for longer -- except that he doesn't know how he can possibly explain anything like Arthur to Will. Merlin doesn't even know what _he_ thinks about Arthur, except that he's funny and a little bit of a prat and a little bit of a gentleman, and when he's around Merlin feels better than he has in weeks.

"Must be really enjoying that research."

"Why?"

Will snorts. "Haven't seen you without a grin on your ugly mug for at least a week or two now." Will isn't stupid, and Merlin knows he probably knows Merlin's sort of dating someone, but he's a good enough mate not to pry, for which Merlin is grateful on nearly a daily basis.

Merlin pulls his head out of the fridge and shuts it. "Yeah, whatever," he replies, trying not to think about the feel of Arthur's skin under his fingertips. "Didn't we have orange juice?"

"Did you want that?" Will asks. He's sitting on the worktop, steadily working his way through the biscuits Merlin's mum had sent them. "It'd been in there for weeks, mate, I used it up yesterday in an experiment."

Merlin would ask what kind of experiment needed perfectly good orange juice, but he's not sure he wants to know. At least Will hasn't blown up anything in their flat up recently. Merlin's not sure the landlord will be so understanding a second time.

"You owe me new orange juice."

Will makes an exasperated noise and throws a biscuit at Merlin. He misses. "Fine," he says, aggrieved, but he's smiling. "As long as your mum keeps sending these biscuits."

:::

"Oi! Don't grab!"

With a look of distaste, Merlin hands the paper back to Arthur. "Sudoku? Really? Arthur, that's so last year."

"Well I like it. It's good for you. Stimulates the... cerebral cortex."

Merlin snorts and plops down on the sofa beside Arthur, sprawling out and laying his head in Arthur's lap. "Do you even know where your cerebral cortex is?"

"And don't say 'so last year'," Arthur says, tunnelling his free hand into Merlin's hair and scratching at his scalp. "It makes you sound like an idiot."

Merlin hums contentedly and turns to press his face against Arthur's stomach. "Do you want me to check it?"

"No I don't want you to _check it_. Besides, aren't you a book nerd? Do book nerds do maths?"

"I can be good at two things, Arthur."

"You're good at lots of things," he says, and he turns his head to see if Merlin catches his bottom lip with his teeth when he smiles.

He does.

:::

Merlin's just finished his shift at the bookshop when his mobile rings.

"'Lo?"

"Merlin," Arthur says, his voice tinny over the line. "I have to work late tonight; do you mind doing dinner another time?"

Merlin stops walking for an instant, one foot hanging in the air, before he forces himself to keep moving.

"Uh, sure. Yeah. No problem."

Arthur sounds apologetic. "I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, alright?"

"Fine," Merlin tells him, and congratulates himself on keeping his voice light. "I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

"See you later."

Merlin walks the rest of the way to his flat mostly by pure instinct, not paying attention to the people he passes or the breeze, cool for springtime still. He's always known what Arthur's job is, but usually he lets himself ignore it entirely. It's been little more than a month since the first night he spent with Arthur, since he handed Lance the number of his bank account and very nearly didn't make rent that month; if he stops to think he recalls too vividly the strange rush of shame that filled him when he first looked at Arthur. It's less trouble to pretend he doesn't remember, even if it is probably horrifically hypocritical of him. He doesn't begrudge Arthur making a living, and he knows he doesn't have a leg to stand on to judge Arthur for his choices.

It's just difficult to remember that when he's sitting in his empty flat, staring at the wall and trying not to imagine Arthur with anyone else while the sun sinks down over the horizon. He doesn't get up to turn on any lights, doesn't feel much like moving. He'll get over it, this ridiculous reaction; it doesn't even make _sense_. He and Arthur are just friends who sleep together, where the sleeping together came first and the friendship was sort of tacked on afterward. He knew what this was going in, and maybe he forgot for a little while because Arthur is enough to make Merlin forget anything, but he'll remember now, keep his priorities sorted.

He stands up with a decisive nod and is walking over to turn on the kitchen light when the door bell goes. He frowns; unless Will's lost his keys again, he doesn't know who it could be, as there shouldn't be anyone dropping by.

It turns out to be Arthur, with a bag from Merlin's favourite Chinese take-away. "Hey," Arthur says, smiling, and Merlin forgets all about keeping his priorities sorted. "I told you I'd make it up to you."

They abandon the take-away pretty quickly, Arthur pressing Merlin down into the sofa instead and kissing him deep, his big hands cradling Merlin's face. He smells like soap and tastes like sweet and sour sauce, and when they finally make their way to Merlin's bedroom and Merlin can tear off all of Arthur's clothes, there isn't a mark on him. Merlin runs his hands over Arthur's skin, testing, reclaiming every inch, and when Arthur's over him, head thrown back as he grinds his hips down, fucking himself slow and steady on Merlin's cock, Merlin lets himself forget everything, lets himself believe that there's just this: just their bodies fitting perfectly together.

:::

"Oh, fuck me."

"Maybe later, I'm watching telly."

"Ha ha," says Merlin, unraveling his long limbs from Arthur's and climbing off the couch. "I'm late. I'm supposed to meet with my supervisor in ten minutes."

"Then you aren't technically late," Arthur replies, trying to pull Merlin back to the couch. "You've got ten minutes."

"No, I've really got to go." He drops a quick kiss on Arthur's lips and then hops up, grabs his bag from the worktop and shouts, "Lock the door when you leave," and slams the door behind him.

For perhaps fifteen minutes, Arthur tries to focus on the movie they've been half-watching. Eventually though, he shuts if off and walks into Merlin's kitchen. He should leave, he thinks, opening the fridge and surveying the contents. He should go; it isn't right for him to be here alone. He takes a bottle of water and then steps back, looking around Merlin's tiny flat. It isn't much; a student's place, obviously, hardly enough room for Merlin, let alone his flatmate, a still-unknown entity named Will, a chemistry student who seems to spend equal amounts of time in his lab and at A&E.

It's a comfortable space though, warm and lived in. In one corner of the sitting room, a heavy laden bookshelf clearly identifies Merlin as a literature student, and a nearby desk is covered and notebooks and a small basket holding unopened post. The furniture is a hodge podge, probably hand-me-downs and charity shop finds, all mismatched and exceedingly comfortable, and in Merlin's small bedroom, another desk and a sunken armchair and a rumpled bed Merlin had bent him over hours ago, fucking him long and slow.

Arthur wanders around the room, picking things up at random and then putting them back. He likes the haphazard way Merlin inhabits this place. He has no designated place to leave his keys or his wallet or his phone and he loses at least one approximately every third day. There are bits of paper scattered about with random notes written in Merlin's careless scrawl. _Check source for Miller's Tale notes -- fabilau_ , says one. _Orange Juice_ , says another, and it's underlined four times. Arthur grins and slides that one into his pocket. He gathers the rest and drops them onto Merlin's desk.

Then he lets himself out, locking the door behind him.

 

:::

Until this moment, it's been, perhaps, a little too easy for Arthur to convince himself that this whole thing with Merlin has been no big deal. Sure, the way they met was a little unconventional, but now they're just friends. Just mates. And if they wind up in bed together rather more frequently than anyone could strictly consider proper, that's just a bonus. Tonight, though. Tonight has dinner reservations. And a tie. Tonight, there is no conceivable way to frame this as anything except a date, and Arthur feels like a chubby 15-year-old standing in Maria Patrick's doorway, waiting on her father to decide if he was worth taking his daughter to a film. He's nearly twice that now, and as he looks at his reflection in his full length mirror, he's the very picture of sophistication.

That doesn't stop his palms being so sweaty he's seriously worried about being able to open and close doors.

"Stay cool, Pendragon," he tells himself. "Keep it together. And don't refer to yourself by your last name, you sound lame. And stop talking about yourself in the third person!"

Arthur rubs his hands over his face. "That man has made me half mad." And then Arthur finds himself grinning, because if he's half madness, the other half, while just as crazy, is something perhaps far more amazing.

Arthur arrives at the restaurant first and takes a seat at the bar, facing the door. Merlin shows up a few minutes later, gorgeous in a black jumper that almost certainly doesn't belong to him, peering around the room with his head cocked to one side in that way he has. Then his face lights up and he smiles, walking over to join Arthur at the bar.

"Fancy."

"Mmm."

"When you told me to dress up I thought you were having me on. Thought this was some sort of prank that was going to end with a pie on my face."

"A pie?"

"Just extrapolating from what I know of your sense of humour."

Arthur laughs. "Thanks for that."

"Anytime. God, but look at you. You look bloody spectacular."

Arthur feels something suspiciously like a blush spread over his cheeks. "Come on. Our table's ready."

By the time they're seated, candles on the table between them and a bottle of wine opened, Arthur is starting to reconsider this plan, especially when Merlin laughs and says "Wow, this is almost like a proper date."

The layout of the silverware is suddenly fascinating.

"Oh."

Arthur attempts a smile that feels more like a grimace.

"Oh shit, Arthur."

Arthur cranes his head to look around the room. "Where is the waiter?" 

"Arthur." Merlin reaches across the table and Arthur lets him take his hand. "This is nice, really."

"It's something different," Arthur mutters, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Thought it might be good to try something new."

"It is," Merlin reassures him, and gives him a wide smile. Arthur relaxes a little.

The food is excellent, (Arthur knew that already, though; he's been here for work before, and if that thought nudges at him uncomfortably from time to time, he's good at ignoring it) and their conversation flows as easily as ever; back and forth in a natural give and take broken up with laughter. Arthur steals ravioli off of Merlin's plate and Merlin flicks a bit of the garnish at him before ordering him to eat his asparagus.

"If I'd wanted to take my governess on a date, _Merlin_ , I would have asked her," Arthur says, and ducks when Merlin launches another leafy piece of garnish at him with a spoon.

They order pudding, of course; Arthur isn't a man to do anything by halves. Merlin's eyes are bright and his cheeks are a little flushed, and it never occurs to Arthur to think it's due to anything but his stimulating company until after their desserts arrive. Merlin gives Arthur a funny look and tilts his head, staring until Arthur raises his eyebrows in question.

"Something on my face?"

"No. I'm just," Merlin says, and thinks for a minute. "I'm just really glad I met _you_ , you know?"

"Me too," Arthur replies, feeling generous from the wine and the delicious chocolate gateau he's working his way through. It's true; he can't feel anything but glad he's met Merlin, but Merlin's shaking his head.

"No," he says, enunciating the word carefully, drawing out the sound. "No, not like me. I needed someone, right? And Lance was there, so I asked him. He didn't like it, but I saved his life and he had to help me. You see?" Merlin peers across the table at Arthur, like he expects Arthur to follow that train of thought _at all_. Arthur glances at the wine bottle with gathering suspicion -- he's had a little more than a glass, but the bottle is nearly empty, just a few drops left at the bottom.

"What are you on about, mate?"

"Matthew," Merlin says, and there are layers to the word that make Arthur tense with something like jealousy.

"Who's Matthew?"

"Why I went to Lance. Will didn't like him." Merlin sounds almost sorrowful, and Arthur has never liked the mysterious Will more.

"Will's a smart man."

"He is," Merlin agrees. "I am stupid. Very, very stupid."

"You aren't stupid, Merlin. You're brilliant."

Merlin shakes his head vigorously. "No, no I'm _not_."

Arthur backs down, tries another tack. The last thing he wants is for Merlin to draw attention to himself. He already has a feeling that they're treading on dangerously sensitive ground, and he's pretty sure Merlin is drunk; he knows that there's probably a reason he hasn't heard about this Matthew before, and that Merlin more than likely doesn't want the whole restaurant to hear about it. "Tell me why you're stupid."

"Matthew was nice," Merlin says, wistful now. Arthur's jealousy pinches harder. "He was so nice to me. I don't know why he was so nice to me, it's not like I was... was... _special_ or anything."

Arthur doesn't know where the conversation is going, but he doesn't like it. Merlin's face is twisting now, the corners of his mouth turning down further than Arthur's ever seen them go, and he's given up on his flan entirely, just pressing it with his fork until it's a shapeless pile of mush on his plate. Arthur catches his hand before he can do any more damage, makes him lay the fork on the table. Merlin starts worrying the edge of the tablecloth instead. "You're very special," Arthur tells him, but Merlin's already shaking his head.

"I wasn't. He never... we never went somewhere like this. With all the... the music, and the candles, and the chandeliers. He didn't like chandeliers, said they were osten... osfen... showy. He took me for dinner after the first time, somewhere we'd never been, and we had soup and breadsticks because it was all we could afford and it was still the best meal I'd ever tasted because he was staying, he was choosing _me_." Merlin's talking faster now, and Arthur's even harder pressed to follow him.

"After the first time what?"

"The second time we went on holiday. He took me. Just for a weekend, just the two of us to the ocean, in a tiny little room, and it was freezing. Freezing, but we had a fire on the beach anyway, and lots of blankets."

"Merlin--"

"The third time," Merlin says, and he's gripping the edge of the table, staring down at his hands as his knuckles turn white. "That was bad. I left. I left him there and I didn't look behind me. He tried calling but I didn't pick up my phone. I think Will picked it up once, I don't know. I heard yelling." His shoulders are hunched up and Arthur wants to hold him, wrap his arms around him until he smiles again, and then go hunt down this Matthew, whoever he is. Arthur's struck by a sudden vision of Merlin bruised, Merlin with a black eye or swollen lip, and the rage that boils up at that thought nearly overwhelms him, makes the world go dark for a terrible instant.

Merlin looks up again, and something clenches, sharp and painful, in Arthur's chest, because Merlin's eyes are damp. "It would have been nice to be enough. It would have been nice to -- to not walk in and see..." His breath hitches and he shuts his eyes tightly, shaking his head. "On my own sofa," he says, his voice thick. "Will burned it. I couldn't... couldn't look at it."

The realization hits Arthur hard, like a full-body blow, and he has to struggle to suck in a breath. "Merlin," he ventures, soft, but he doesn't know what to say after that. God, he can't even imagine... He wants so badly to find the bastard and cut off his balls; from the sound of it, Will would probably help, and maybe he knows something about hiding bodies or evidence.

Merlin's drinking from his water glass, and Arthur stares at him helplessly. Who in their right mind would go to someone else, anyone else, if they had Merlin? Merlin, who is wickedly funny and ticklish in unexpected places and never, ever boring; who chews the tops of his pens until they're horribly mangled and who laughs with his entire body, head thrown back and his arms flying wide, as if he can't help but throw his joy out to the world.

"That's done, though," Merlin says, more firmly, setting down his glass again. "There's you now." He gives Arthur a wobbly smile, his eyes still red, and Arthur feels his heart break a little bit for this beautiful man. Merlin looks at his plate, puzzled. "My flan is squashed."

"I don't," Arthur stops, clears his throat to get the tight feeling out of it. "I think it's pretty finished, mate. Want to call it a night, head home?"

"Okay."

Arthur gestures for the check, pays quickly while Merlin hangs onto the waiter's arm and tries to apologize for the state of his flan. "I know I'm supposed to eat it," he tells the man earnestly, "but it's squashed. Is the chef going to be angry?"

"No one's going to be angry," Arthur tells him, taking his hands while the waiter gives him a grateful look and flees. "You're allowed to squash your flan if you want to."

Merlin leans against him as they walk, and Arthur puts an arm around his waist; half to steady him, half to pull him closer. He's still tense, and his mouth is still folded down at the corners; Arthur isn't sure if he's done talking about Matthew, but he suspects not.

"Are you sad?" Merlin asks out of the blue as Arthur pushes open the door and they step out into the evening. "I think you're a little sad. And angry. Your eyebrows are doing the unhappy crawly dance."

"The -- what?"

"That's what I call it."

Arthur exhales, a long slow breath. "I'm not angry," he says, keeping his voice gentle. "Not with you."

"That's good. I believe you. Matthew was never angry with me, he said he wasn't, but I didn't believe him. I didn't believe him about lots of things."

They're almost at Arthur's car when Merlin stops and shudders, muttering. Arthur turns to look at him, worried about what might come next. Merlin's mouth is twitching, and his forehead is furrowed deeper than Arthur's ever seen it, like he's working himself up to something.

" _Bastard_!" Merlin yells, and Arthur goes ice cold before realizing Merlin isn't even looking at him, is still hanging tight onto Arthur's arm. "He was a sodding bastard and I l-- I lo-- _FUCK_ ," he screams. "Fuck you, you bastard!"

Arthur tries to shush him, horrendously conscious that they're not very far away from the doors of the restaurant, and sends out a fervent prayer to whoever might be listening that the windows at least are all closed.

"I hate him! I fucking hate him!" Merlin pulls back, trying to yank himself away from Arthur, but Arthur adjusts his grip and holds fast, keeping Merlin pressed close. "I want to punch all his teeth out," he rages, hitting Arthur in the chest. "Every single fucking tooth!"

"I know," Arthur says, wrapping his arms tighter around Merlin and pulling him in until Merlin has no room to hit anymore. "I know; I want to punch his teeth out for you."

"I hate him," Merlin says again, but he's stopped yelling, and his struggle to get free, to hit Arthur again, is weakening. He sounds tired, worn. "I hate him so much." His shoulders are shaking; Arthur hugs him tighter, as if he can squeeze the memories out of Merlin entirely, draw Matthew out of his head and leave nothing but healing forgetfulness behind.

Arthur doesn't know how long they stand there in front of the restaurant, his hands stroking up and down on Merlin's back while his shoulder grows a little damp under Merlin's face, but he doesn't care; doesn't care that people stare at them, doesn't care that Merlin's sniffling all over his best shirt. He waits until Merlin's gone mostly quiet before he speaks. "Let's take you home, yeah?" he asks softly, and Merlin nods without lifting his head. "Come on then."

Merlin drowses through most of the way back to his flat, and Arthur keeps stealing looks at him, trying to memorize the way his skin looks as the light from the street lamps slides over it. He mostly carries Merlin up the stairs, and fishes the key out of the pocket Merlin points to. The flat is dark and silent, but Arthur's memorised the way to Merlin's bedroom by now, and it doesn't take him long to bundle Merlin into bed and manoeuvre him out of the jumper and his shirt before slipping off his shoes and working his trousers off.

"You're a good man," Merlin tells him when Arthur draws the duvet up over him, and reaches up to run an unsteady hand through Arthur's hair. His vowels are too long, his voice hazy with sleep. "Y'take good care of me."

"I'm not," Arthur whispers, pressing a kiss to Merlin's knuckles before he steps back. "But thank you."

He's asleep before Arthur even shuts the door behind him.

:::

Merlin wakes up to a blinding headache and the vague sense that he's done something incredibly stupid. He remembers candles and wine, and Arthur looking devastatingly attractive in a red tie, and Merlin had said, had told him--

"Oh Christ," he tells the ceiling in horror, and winces at the pain that lances through his head. He hopes the memories returning to him piecemeal are just the remnants of very vivid dreams; he can't imagine what Arthur will say if it turns out Merlin actually did cry on his bloody _shoulder_.

"You're a very interesting drunk," Arthur informs him, chuckling. They're sitting at Merlin's favourite coffee shop and the latte Merlin's holding with both hands is making him feel slightly more human, but Arthur's laughter is making him reconsider ever climbing out of bed.

"I've already heard every variation of every lightweight joke ever," Merlin mutters into the foam in his cup, "so I don't really need you to remind me, thanks."

"Hey," Arthur says, and reaches out to grab one of Merlin's hands, tugging at it until he can link their fingers together. "It's alright; what kind of guy would I be if I didn't take care of you when you've drunk enough to--" he pauses briefly, as if he's changing what he's going to say, "--chat up the waiter when you're already on a date?"

"I didn't." Merlin can feel all the colour draining out of his face before Arthur's gleeful expression gives away the game. "I hate you," he complains feebly, but he doesn't try to pull his hand away from Arthur's.

"You don't mean that."

Merlin ducks his head. "I don't," he agrees, and the words feel heavier in his mouth than they should.

They sit comfortably for a while, Merlin concentrating on his latte until he can't avoid the subject any more.

"Look, all those things I said last night -- I'm sorry, yeah? It wasn't... I know I've no right to be dumping stuff like that on you. I never would have dreamed of doing it, but wine--" he waves his free hand in the air, trying to illustrate how utterly idiotic wine makes him. "It goes straight to my head," he finishes lamely. "So, yeah. Sorry about that."

Arthur's response is to pull Merlin's hand closer and wrap his other hand around it, so that Merlin's thin fingers are nearly lost between Arthur's hands. "Don't apologise. I'm glad you told me."

Merlin makes a disbelieving face, but Arthur doesn't budge. "I am," he insists. "It's part of who you are, and I like knowing about you, even if it makes me want to go around breaking kneecaps."

"Now you sound like Will."

"That's because Will is an excellent human being. I think we'd get along well."

Merlin almost grins at that, because he's pretty sure Will and Arthur would fight like cats half the time and be inseparable and devious together the other half. "I am never introducing you two; I'd never be able to sleep easily again."

"Probably," Arthur agrees, and looks at his watch. "Bugger."

"Somewhere you have to be?" Merlin tries to ignore the twist of jealousy at the thought.

"I'm having lunch with my father," Arthur says, frowning. "Not my favourite meal of every month."

"At least it's just lunch?"

Arthur snorts. "Lunch, and a lecture on why my life has gone entirely to hell, and a list of everything I've done wrong, starting with my birth." He stands up and Merlin rises with him to walk out the door.

"That's awful."

"Like you said, it's just lunch." They stand for a moment outside the coffee shop, and Merlin tries to think of something to say but can't come up with anything. He's never met his father, and there was a time he hated the world for that, but right now it seems worse to have a father than not, if the expression on Arthur's face is any indication.

Arthur shakes himself after a moment. "Dinner again tonight? I promise something without a dress code this time."

"Sounds great," Merlin says, and on an impulse, leans in to give Arthur a peck right there in the middle of the street, just because Arthur looks like he needs it. "Just let me know where to be, and I'll be there."

"I'll call you. Don't die in a freak textbook accident."

"I promise."

Merlin watches Arthur walk away before sticking his hands in his pockets and turning around, tilting his face up to the sun and feeling something like contentment unfurling and spreading along his skin.

 

:::

After a few years in the business, there isn't much about his own body that is a mystery to Arthur, and one thing he knows for sure is that he looks just as good in clothes as he does out of them. It's why Lance calls him whenever he has a client looking for an actual escort, and Lance needs someone articulate and handsome for a dinner party. It's also why Arthur has a closet full of incredibly expensive and beautiful clothes, and while he's usually content in jeans, lunch at Uther's club demands nothing less than a suit, so he chooses one in a nondescript black, a crisp white shirt with french cuffs, a striped tie and, because he knows his father will notice, cuff links with the Pendragon crest. He readies himself as if for battle, taking up his clothes like a suit of armour, as if each layer is embedded with protection.

If he looks hard enough, Arthur supposes there is some sort of irony in this being the reason Uther found him out in the first place. Showing up at a fundraiser to benefit his father's lab with a fake name and on the arm of a man who had more than once offered Uther the number for his escort service... Arthur turns away from the mirror and goes to find shoes. It will do him no good to dwell on that particular memory right now, not when his father is probably already waiting for him with an overpriced menu, a brandy, complaints about how much his most recent wife is taking him for, and at least a dozen condescending remarks about Arthur's chosen profession.

When Arthur leaves his bedroom, he doesn't even bother with a cursory, last glance in the mirror. He already knows he looks perfect. It is likely to make little difference.

:::

Spending time with his father is a frosty affair at best, so when this lunch doesn't last more than fifteen minutes before Uther starts waxing poetic about his latest protégé, some fresh-faced new Doctor Lefay who's set to completely set the pharmaceutical world on its ear, Arthur just grits his teeth and settles in for the long haul.

"How's Gaius?" he asks, because Gaius is usually a safe subject between them.

"Retiring at the end of next month."

_Damn it_ , Arthur thinks, already regretting his miscalculation.

"Even with Morgana we're going to be short-staffed," Uther tells him, and this is one of their oldest, most familiar arguments, one Arthur has no desire to rehash.

"Father--"

"You're not unintelligent, Arthur. You could have gone anywhere, if you'd tried: Oxford and Cambridge would have wet themselves at the chance to have a Pendragon. But instead you refused to apply yourself to anything worthwhile, nearly failed half your A-Levels, and now look at you."

"I had ambitions," Arthur says steadily, resisting the urge to tug at his necktie. This is an old game between them, and he's not going to be the one who breaks first. "You refused to support them."

Uther scoffs. "Ambitions? As if I'd pay for you to spend some of the most important years of your life faffing around _connecting to nature_ and learning about the virtues of aubergine as opposed to violet."

"You read the brochure," Arthur realizes, and there's a sliver of fury he hasn't felt in years stirring inside him. "You said you lost it."

"It's your own fault you are where you are." Uther's eyes hold no lie -- Arthur knows his father believes what he says completely. "You could have had everything, Arthur: a successful career, an honest income, a family..."

"I'm seeing someone," Arthur says before he really thinks about it, desperate to distract Uther because he can't listen anymore, because the _family_ part of this argument is the part he hates the most. It works.

Uther leans back just a little in his chair. "Are you," he comments, bland. "And does this... someone know how you spend your time?" _Spend your time_ , as if Arthur does what he does for a hobby, not to pay his bills.

"Yes," he says, and he can't quite control the sharpness that slips into his voice. He knows his father picks up on it, and tightens his fingers on the stem of his water glass to try and regain his composure.

"Hmm," his father replies, somehow managing to inject the syllable with years of condescension and disappointment.

Arthur focuses on his salmon, cutting it with perhaps slightly more vigour than necessary, and doesn't look up when his father starts talking about the lab again, just nods when it sounds like he should. He can feel his mobile against his thigh, a light weight in his pocket, and when the lunch is finally over, he barely waits until he's in the car park before flipping it open and calling Merlin.

"Let's have dinner early," he says when Merlin picks up. "I promise not to let you drink a bottle of wine by yourself again. Or we can forget dinner and just go somewhere. Where do you want to go? I've always had a fondness for Portugal."

Merlin laughs. "I've work until three; can you wait that long for Portugal?"

"I suppose I have no choice," Arthur says, heaving a dramatic sigh. "I'll pick you up. I hope you have a Portuguese phrasebook."

He sits in his car for a long time after they hang up, closing his eyes and concentrating on the clear sound of Merlin's laughter until it drives all his father's words straight out of his head.

:::

When Arthur picks Merlin up, they don't drive to Heathrow and get on a plane to Portugal, although Arthur pretends to and Merlin teases him about it. They end up going to a park and lying in the sun until Merlin starts to burn, and by then it's no longer ridiculously early to eat, so they find a place that serves nothing but fried things and sit at a table so small their knees knock together under it.

"You just want to ogle Portuguese men," Merlin accuses, grinning over the top of his menu, and Arthur reaches across the table to give his shoulder a shove.

"Piss off," he says goodnaturedly. "As if I'd be ogling anyone but you. What are you having?"

He moves on without a hitch, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. Merlin does his best to follow, but half of him is still stuck on the casual tilt of Arthur's head when he spoke, the warm, lazy look he threw at Merlin when he said _as if_. He knows it was just a throwaway comment, teasing, but he can't help the way it warms him up, makes his skin tingle in the corners of his body. He slides a hand across the table, testing, and Arthur takes it, catching Merlin's fingers between his own without missing a beat in the conversation, as if Merlin's hand in his own comes as naturally as breathing.

Merlin spends most of the meal trying contentedly to avoid letting go of Arthur's hand. When they've finished and Merlin's paid despite Arthur's protestations -- "You paid last night and had to carry my drunk arse home," Merlin says firmly, "it's only fair I take tonight" -- they walk slowly back to Arthur's car, shoulders brushing, enjoying the evening, warm even for late May.

"I should probably go home," Merlin says, with a look at Arthur that says Arthur is very much more than welcome to go home with him.

Arthur fiddles with his keys. "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come home with me. You don't have to."

"To your suite?" Merlin asks, confused. Arthur's never been worried about taking him there before.

"To -- no, Merlin," Arthur says, caught somewhere between amused and incredulous. "Home. To my flat."

"Oh." Merlin studies Arthur for a moment, silhouetted against the last red rays of the sun, still playing with his keys and trying to pretend he isn't jumpy as hell. Merlin surprises himself by knowing that that's what the set of Arthur's shoulders means, that the twist of his mouth means he thinks he cares too much and is trying to convince himself he doesn't care at all.

"Let's go," he says, opening the passenger door, and Arthur starts a little before opening his own door and sliding behind the wheel.

"Where to?"

Merlin rolls down his window. "Home," he says with a smile, looking over at Arthur and echoing his words. "I've never seen your flat before."

"Don't get your hopes up. It isn't much to look at."

"It's yours," Merlin says, and reaches out for Arthur's hand again.

:::

The furniture is sleek and nondescript, honey-coloured wood and that beige colour you pick when you can't decide on anything else. Red throw cushions are piled up in one corner and dot the ends of the couch and Merlin thinks that those, more than the furniture, suit Arthur. He likes it though, neat and understated and very, very not blue. Will has some sort of odd fascination with blue and is forever bringing home blue coffee mugs and all sorts, driving Merlin insane. The only blue in Arthur's flat is in some pictures on the walls, where the ocean meets the sky, and that's not really even blue. In fact, the photos framed on the walls are the best part of the entire place and Merlin finds himself wandering down the hall slowly, taking each one in.

Most of them are landscapes, and Merlin doesn't know shit about art but even he can tell these are good. The one at the end of the hall, though, is the one that really catches his attention. While all the others are of faraway subjects or grand scenes, this one is intense and direct, splashes of bright colours that are almost blurred. Merlin stands in front of it for several moments, not trying to determine what it is, just taking it in. For no reason he can name, he feels a tightness in his chest, something raw in his throat. After a while, he feels Arthur come up behind him and slip his arms around his waist.

"This is my favourite," he says, nodding his head at the photo.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't -- I mean, I don't know anything about art or anything, I just like this one." He laughs softly. "I don't even know what it is."

And Arthur is near, so near, and Merlin can feel the rumble of Arthur's words against his back. "Those are the flowers I put on my mother's grave last year for her birthday."

Merlin sucks in a shallow breath. "These are yours."

"Yeah."

"You took these." 

"Yeah."

Merlin turns in Arthur's arms. "Arthur, these are lovely."

"You're lovely."

He leans forward and captures Arthur's mouth with his own, trying not to think of what this means, and why Arthur brought him here. He focuses instead on the softness of Arthur's bottom lip and the way it fits so neatly between his own, on the hitch in Arthur's breathing when Merlin reaches up and cups his face. Arthur is solid against him, he's warm and real and _here_ and in this moment, it's nothing for Merlin to convince himself that's enough. So when Arthur says "Take me to bed," it's the easiest thing in the world to gather Arthur's body up against his own and spread him out on the bed, to peel away their clothes until there is nothing between them at all. He lets his hands wander all over Arthur's body, his dips and valleys, the ticklish spot behind his knee.

"You're brilliant like this," Merlin tells him, whispers it into his skin. "I want to touch you everywhere. Taste you everywhere."

"Bloody do it then," Arthur grinds out, his body arching up into Merlin's touch, which is more than enough encouragement for him. He covers Arthur's body with his own and maps all that smooth, golden skin, pressing kisses into the curve of his shoulder, the trail of fine hair along his stomach, the hollow beneath his hipbone. He moves his mouth against Arthur's skin, brushing a path to his cock, the throb of his heartbeat a tremor beneath his skin. He sneaks a glance at Arthur's face.

"Is this--" he says, and his tongue darts out, licking just the tip.

" _Fuck_ ," Arthur keens, his body surging up and then slamming back down onto the bed. He lifts his head and meets Merlin's gaze, eyes wild in his face.

"I don't know if I--" Merlin says.

"I haven't--"

They're staring at one another, both of them panting and struggling for air. The space between them seems somehow both vast and narrow, but it's widening every second, and he can feel Arthur gathering the will to push him away.

"Stop me," Merlin says, unable to wait any longer, and he slides his mouth down the length of Arthur's cock.

"Merlin. Merlin, _fuck_ , Merlin," Arthur chants. Merlin can feel Arthur's hands tangling in his hair, holding him close, and he swallows around him, his fingernails digging half-moons into Arthur's hips.

"Good," Arthur moans from somewhere above his head. "So good, Merlin, god."

And then salty on his tongue, the barest hint of Arthur's precome and Merlin, suddenly greedy, hollows his cheeks out and sucks even harder. He wants this, wants the taste of Arthur on his tongue, and it's wrong and he knows he shouldn't but he can't seem to stop himself. In this moment, he wants nothing more than for Arthur to belong to him alone, to taste him and claim him, mark his body in a way he's never dared before. Before he has a chance though, Arthur tugs hard on his hair and Merlin obeys the pressure, dragging himself up the length of Arthur's body.

"I wanna fuck you," Arthur says breathlessly. "Can I? Will you let me?"

"God, Arthur--"

"Please--"

" _Yes_."

Arthur kisses him hard then, fingers still tangled in his hair, his cock spit-slick between them. They struggle with one another for several moments, neither of them willing to yield. Finally, Arthur gives Merlin one good shove and Merlin lands on his back. Arthur licks into his mouth one last time and then leans over, yanking open the bedside table. Over the roaring in his own ears, Merlin can hear Arthur rummaging around in the drawer and then his voice.

"Fuck," he says. And then: "Are you fucking--"

Then he pulls the drawer free and upends its contents on the bed.

"Arthur?"

"I don't have anything."

Merlin lifts his head. "What?"

"I don't _have_ anything."

"What do you mean?" Merlin asks, shoving his hand into the pile of stuff alongside Arthur's and coming up with a book of stamps.

"I mean I don't fucking have anything."

"How is that possible?"

"Because I fucking don't, all right?"

And that's bad. Very, very bad, but Merlin is having trouble focusing with Arthur's weight still pinning his hips to the bed. He rocks up once and Arthur lays a hand flat on his chest. "Don't," he says warningly.

"Just because we don't have--"

"We can't."

"No, I don't mean that. But there's plenty of other stuff," Merlin says, sweeping his hands over Arthur's thighs. "Come here." He tugs at Arthur a bit and reaches up to lick a stripe up his cock. "Take me like this."

"Fuck, Merlin," Arthur says, his hips stuttering forward towards Merlin's mouth. "Really?"

"Really." He slides off the pillows, mouthing Arthur's cock as Arthur shifts up Merlin's body, until they're arranged just so and Arthur can press in, slide his cock deep and sure into Merlin's mouth. Merlin groans at the feel of it, pinned to the bed and utterly at Arthur's mercy. And much as he wants to just lie back and close his eyes and revel in the feeling of Arthur possessing him, he can't tear his eyes away from his face, spots of colour high on his cheeks, his hair a sweaty mess, his priceless composure nearly wrecked.

But he's not there yet; his thrusts are still controlled and Merlin wants more than anything to undo the man above him, pull him apart entirely, so he takes one of his hands off Arthur's hip and lifts it to Arthur's mouth, pressing two fingers inside. Arthur's eyes fly open; they lock with Merlin's and he sucks the fingers into his mouth, rolls his tongue around them until they're soaking. Then he pulls them free and presses them into Arthur's body.

Arthur makes a strangled noise and braces his hands on the wall behind the bed and thrusts forward, cock slamming into the back of Merlin's throat. It makes his eyes water and the only thing he can think is _more_ , so he presses in deeper, twisting. Arthur's breath is coming in a shallow pant now; he's unravelling with every thrust, and Merlin wants to make this good for him, but Arthur is beyond himself now and Merlin can do little more than try to keep up. He wraps his other hand around his own cock and begins to jerk it with the same rhythm Arthur is using to fuck his mouth. It's too fast and too rough, feels bloody _fantastic_ and Merlin finally slams his eyes shut, no longer able to watch the storm of emotions across Arthur's face.

When Arthur loses his rhythm and begins to thrust wildly, Merlin knows he's close. He leaves off his own cock and grabs Arthur's hip again, pressing his fingers deep, crooking them, seeking...

With a wild shout, Arthur thrusts his hips back and wrenches free of Merlin's mouth. He grabs his cock and pulls it twice, face screwed up, and comes all over Merlin's chest. And when he's spent, Merlin returns to his own pleasure, lets himself pull Arthur down, bend him awkwardly for a kiss, their tongues meeting obscenely in the space between their mouths. With Arthur's name a whimper in his throat, Merlin strokes one last time and comes all over his hand.

Later, when they're clean and dry and lying in bed with their hands clasped between them and Merlin is happily losing the battle with wakefulness, Arthur nudges him with his foot and says, "Merlin?"

"Hmmm?"

"You awake?"

"No."

Arthur kicks him again. "Merlin."

Merlin rolls his head to the side and cracks one eye. "Yes, dear?"

Arthur bites down on his lip and picks at a bit of lint on the blanket. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, then shakes his head and presses his lips together. "Nevermind."

"Oh, no, I don't think so," says Merlin, rolling over and propping himself up on his elbow. "What were you about to say?"

"It isn't important."

"If it was important enough for this--" Merlin flaps his mouth open and closed exaggeratedly several times, "and important enough to _wake me up in the first place_ \--"

Arthur sighs in a put upon way, but something about the hard set of his face makes Merlin realize he isn't joking, and that whatever is on his mind is weighing heavily there.

"Arthur, what?"

"It's just ... it's stupid."

"It isn't."

"You don't even know."

"Well why don't you tell me, and then I will."

Arthur draws a deep breath. "It's just ... my photos."

Merlin frowns. "What about them?"

"Did you really -- I mean -- you really liked them?"

"Your photos? Arthur, I loved them."

"Yeah, but that's -- I mean, you're shagging me. You're not exactly impartial, are you?"

"I don't have to be impartial to know talent."

"It helps, though."

Merlin exhales through his nose and rolls over on top of Arthur's body, settling in the cradle of Arthur's hips, rubbing his nose along the length of Arthur's cheek and humming in an approving way when Arthur wraps his legs around Merlin's, his feet hooking behind Merlin's knees. "Arthur. I think your photos are beautiful. Honestly, really amazing. And I don't -- I mean, obviously, I don't know anything about art or photography or anything, but looking at them, it was like, it wasn't just that it was a nice picture. It was... it made me feel something, you know? Made me wonder if that was what you felt when you took it." He reaches up and smooths Arthur's fringe off his forehead. "I like to see things the way you see them."

Arthur presses his lips closed, then bites his bottom lip a little, then breaks into a full-fledged grin and rolls his eyes. "OK, fine. Thank you."

Merlin presses a quick kiss to his mouth. "All better? Ego properly stroked?"

Arthur grins again. "Yes."

"You need anything else stroked?"

Arthur laughs and gives Merlin's shoulder a shove. "Oh shut up, won't you? Go back to sleep."

And when the blankets are settled around them and Arthur is pressed down the length of his back, their legs slotted together like the tumblers in a lock, Merlin does just that.

:::

Merlin wakes slowly, inching gradually into consciousness to find the morning already warm, light spilling over the bed from the open window. Arthur's still sleeping, his mouth hanging just slightly open, cheek pushed into the pillow and one arm thrown low over Merlin's stomach. He looks softer, happier in sleep, and Merlin closes his eyes again with a small smile, rolling over to tuck himself against Arthur more securely. He's still fuzzy with sleep, doesn't really register any thoughts other than contentment brought on by the fact that it's Saturday and they can spend the whole day in bed if they want to, just pressed against each other with the sheets rumpled and wrapped around their feet.

He's drifted into the warm dark place somewhere just before sleep when the phone rings, dragging him back into wakefulness against his will. He grumbles, burrowing his face deeper into Arthur's shoulder, but the phone keeps ringing, insistent and too loud. With a groan, Merlin levers himself up on his elbows and reaches over Arthur for the phone, fumbling as he tries to find the receiver.

"Whuzzat?" Arthur murmurs, and Merlin can't resist brushing a kiss over his forehead.

"'S just the phone; go back to sleep."

Arthur stretches luxuriously under him without opening his eyes. "Tell 'em t'go 'way."

Merlin's planning on doing exactly that, and when he finally finds the receiver he brings it up to his ear with a definite aim to make the conversation as short as possible. Shorter, even. Merlin hasn't had coffee yet; he's allowed to be rude.

"'Lo?"

There's a beat of silence on the other end, and Merlin wonders if it's a wrong number.

"Hello?"

Merlin sinks down to prop his chin on Arthur's chest and lets his eyes go half-shut. "Who's this?" he asks, tracing the fingers of his free hand over the skin of Arthur's stomach until Arthur twitches away, squirming.

Another pause.

"Merlin?"

And Merlin... Merlin _knows_ that voice; there's only one person who lilts over the syllables of his name like that.

" _Lance_?"

Lance is yelling something, his voice buzzing angrily, but Merlin's dropped the receiver in horror and reared back, scrambling away from it as if he can erase the last thirty seconds if he puts enough distance between him and the phone. Arthur's sitting up too now, staring at Merlin with panic growing in his expression. Slowly, so slowly, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around the phone, his eyes still locked with Merlin's as he lifts it to his ear.

"Arthur Pendragon." Merlin wants to reach out and catch Arthur's other hand, but Arthur's already turning away, slinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. "What's -- Jesus, Lance, calm down." He glances back once at Merlin, apologetic, and ducks out of the bedroom. Merlin pulls his legs up to his chest and tucks his hands under his knees, already missing Arthur's warm weight at his side.

He tries to remember if any of the documents Lance made him sign had stipulations about clients sleeping with employees on the side. Probably. There are probably dozens of bylaws in the hooker code that forbid exactly what they've been doing, and even though it's not like Lance actually walked in on them together or anything, Merlin has to admit that answering Arthur's phone early on a Saturday morning is pretty damning evidence by itself. Lance hadn't wanted Merlin to go through with his original plan to begin with, either; there's absolutely no doubt in Merlin's mind that Lance is going to be furious that Merlin's been sleeping with Arthur for weeks now. Lance has always taken his agency more seriously than anything else -- he's a businessman, and Merlin wonders how much Lance will blame Arthur, whether Arthur might lose his job over this. It isn't outside the realm of possibility, he supposes.

There's a guilty sort of joy that runs through him at the thought of Arthur being fired, but he quashes it. Whether or not he likes it, working for Lance is how Arthur makes his living; Merlin doesn't have the right to interfere with that. Instead, he worries about how his own friendship with Lance has maybe been entirely shot to hell. He's never really thought about it before, Lance not being there -- Lance has been there for him since the day they met, and Merlin's just sort of assumed he'd always be around.

He pulls his knees in tighter and rests his chin on them, staring hard at the door to Arthur's bedroom, as if that will do anything to help. He tries not to think about Lance's cooking or his easy smile, about how enormously Merlin's betrayed his trust.

Eventually he can't stand just sitting there anymore. He showers while he waits, because Arthur hasn't reappeared, and if he just sits around he knows he's going to start creeping over to the door to eavesdrop on Arthur's conversation with Lance.

He should go back to his own flat, anyway; now that the lazy morning has vanished it's odd to be in Arthur's flat, in Arthur's bed. Merlin does _not_ think about how many people Arthur might have had in that bed before him, rinsing the shampoo out of his hair with a little more force than necessary, and concentrates instead on the books he knows he should go to the library for. When he gets out, Arthur's hunched on the corner of the bed, waiting. He's put boxers on, but there's still acres of skin Merlin wants to touch: the insides of his elbows, the scattered line of freckles dotting his left side.

"Hey," Arthur says, lifting his head to look at Merlin, and Merlin fights the urge to hold his towel in front of him. "Sorry for -- sorry about that."

Merlin shrugs and turns away to find his clothes, still strewn around on the floor. "Not your fault."

"Yeah, but... still."

Merlin finds his shirt in a corner of the room and drags it over his head. "I should go," he says once it's on.

"Merlin--"

"I have to head to the library; I owe my supervisor a thousand more words by Monday."

Arthur comes up behind him while he's stepping into his trainers, a steady presence at his back as he wobbles on one foot. "Okay," Arthur says. "Can I see you tonight?"

Merlin turns around to look at him, hesitating, and Arthur reaches out to slide his hands around Merlin's waist. "We'll work something out," he tells Merlin. "We'll -- it'll work out. You'll see." Merlin knows Arthur might be wrong, knows they could go a hundred different ways from here, but he believes Arthur anyway. There's something about Arthur that makes Merlin trust him, that makes Merlin _want_ to trust him.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, tonight works for me."

Arthur grins, and Merlin can't help but grin back until Arthur pulls him into a kiss. The way Arthur kisses is familiar now, but still, every time, just for a moment, it's like forgetting how to breathe.

"So, 5:30?" Arthur asks when they break apart, rubbing his hands slowly up and down Merlin's back. "My place?"

Merlin nods and forces himself to step back from Arthur before he pushes him against a wall and snogs him again. "See you then."

Arthur catches him again when Merlin opens the door of the flat, stopping him with a long sweet kiss in the middle of the corridor. "Don't worry so much," he murmurs into Merlin's skin, letting him go reluctantly. "Everything's going to be okay."

Merlin squeezes his hand in answer and leaves, glancing back once to see Arthur leaning against the doorway to his flat, watching him go.

 

::

 

The hand dryers in the student union are seriously too fucking hot. Merlin jumps back from the one he's trying to use to dry his shirt when he starts to wonder if it can actually set cotton on fire.

"Fucking coffee," he mutters, looking down at the stain on his shirt and then up at the mirror, expecting to see dark circles like bruises under his eyes. There are none; he slept like a dream last night, wrapped up in Arthur's bed. The reflection in the mirror looks like a lie, nothing like how Merlin feels, wrung out and used up. He grabs the cool edges of the sink and leans forward, head hanging down heavily.

"Idiot," he tells the porcelain sink. And then "You fucking idiot," again to his reflection. Why did he pick up that phone? What on earth was he thinking? He can still hear Arthur's sleep-thick voice and Lance's... God, Lance is going to fucking _kill_ him.

"Oh, this is a complete disaster."

And it is, a complete and utter disaster. Lance is his friend, one of his very _best_ friends, and he'd warned Merlin, made him swear not to do anything stupid and now...Merlin groans and drops his head again. He stands there for a good long while, staring at the sink and wondering if he can drown himself in it.

But then he thinks of his half-finished dissertation and of the really delicious stroopwafels his mum sent them, but mostly of Arthur and the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners when he's about to make a joke at Merlin's expense. Besides, Lance isn't likely to let something as insignificant as Merlin being dead save him from what is sure to be a pretty spectacular dressing down.

So he splashes some water on his face and retreats to the library, determined to lose himself in research. It's not a very good plan. The library is too quiet and Merlin's thoughts are too loud. After reading the same page for a solid hour, he's about to give the whole thing up as a bad job when he sees a dark and menacing figure cutting a path towards him. He has no more than a second to steel himself before Lance grabs him by the shirt collar and hauls him into a corner.

"You came to my _university_?"

"I wasn't sure where else to find you," Lance whispers furiously. "I assumed you weren't stupid enough to go back to Arthur's."

"Lance, come on, it isn't--"

"It isn't what? What it sounded like? It wasn't you? Did Arthur have someone else in his bed? I mean, aside from all the men who pay me for the priviledge of fucking him."

"Don't."

"He's a _hooker_ , Merlin," Lance says harshly.

"What, you don't think I know that?"

"Do you want to know how many men he's fucked since you met him? I can show you his book."

Merlin's stomach turns. "That's not fair."

"No, Merlin, it isn't. And you swore to me you wouldn't do anything stupid and then you go and what? Fall in love with him? How is that fair?"

'I'm not... it isn't... I'm not in love with him or anything."

"No?" Lance straightens up. "Good then, that makes this simpler."

And Merlin wants to hit something, because there is nothing simple about this. "Look--"

"No, you look," whispers Lance, leaning into Merlin's space and tightening his grip on his shirt. "I warned you ... I told you this was a bad idea and you insisted. You're the one who fucked this up, Merlin. Now you fix it."

"And how--?"

"End it."

Merlin feels something like panic lick at the edges of his mind.

"It isn't that easy, Lance. I get that he's just a hooker to you, but he's not. There's more to him than that. And I know," Merlin exhales a laugh. "I know how I sound, believe me, I do. But he really is the most amazing -- and I know what he is, Lance, I do. No matter what you think, he's never tried to hide it from me. But it doesn't -- when I'm with him, he makes me feel --"

"It isn't his job to make you _feel_ anything, Merlin. His job was to shag you, and now that he has, fucking _end it_."

Then, without another word, he turns and walks from the library.

:::

Merlin spends the afternoon after Lance leaves pacing his flat, trapped in indecision. He'd believed himself when he told Lance he wasn't in love with Arthur, because how stupid would it be, to leave Matthew only to fall in love with a bloody hooker? Arthur is just fun to be with, nothing serious; they enjoy each other's company and the sex is good, but that's it. Whatever Lance thinks, Merlin isn't an idiot. He promised himself he wouldn't fall for anyone so soon after Matthew, and he's kept that promise. With the possible exception of that one night at the fancy restaurant, with the candles and the wine -- and Merlin doesn't count that; he thinks about that night as little as he possibly can -- he and Arthur aren't dating, or pretending to date, and it's just because Will is busy that Merlin even spends as much time with Arthur as he does. It doesn't mean anything that Arthur brought Merlin to his own flat, or that Merlin put Arthur down as his plus-one for his department luncheon, and the fact that Merlin can name all the foods Arthur won't eat or knows that a dog bit him when he was twelve has no relevance. They're friends, that's all. It shouldn't be hard to end it, move on with his life.

Lance's words aren't sitting right, though, and the idea of ending it -- whatever _it_ is between them -- makes Merlin feel nauseous, makes the palms of his hands go sweaty.

He's staring at the design Arthur made with magnets on his fridge and trying to figure out why the idea of never seeing him again is so peculiarly devastating when he realises he's gone and fallen head over heels for Arthur Pendragon.

"Oh, _fuck_ no," he says aloud, startled by the sudden clarity of the recognition. It's a horrible idea on so many levels, Merlin can't even begin to count them, but that doesn't change the fact that the thought of Arthur makes him feel giddy and sick and utterly, soppily in love. He wants to wake up next to Arthur and engage in gross displays of public indecency with him and force him to eat vegetables.

"Jesus," Merlin says to his empty flat, and slumps down until he's lying on his back on the floor, spread-eagled. Well, he thinks, that's certainly an inconvenient realisation. Leaving aside Arthur's profession -- and he is leaving it aside, entirely, because he can't fit his mind around it, doesn't want to deal with that can of particularly horrible worms right now -- Arthur's sort of a prat and steals all the blankets and isn't Merlin's type at all. And yet... and yet Merlin doesn't actually mind the blankets, because Arthur is an oven, and fits exactly right against Merlin's back, and makes soft noises when he breathes.

He knows he should be talking himself out of this ridiculous notion, should be knocking sense into himself, but he can't help but think of the little things Arthur does -- listen to him while he raves about a source for his dissertation that didn't pan out, or catch his hand when they're walking together, or let his eyes go soft when he's looking at Merlin and thinks Merlin isn't paying attention. There are a lot of little things that look suspicious when Merlin starts putting them all together, like maybe this is more than some shag to Arthur, too.

Merlin sits up again and checks the clock on the wall. It's four, not yet time to go meet Arthur, but he can't sit still anymore. He'll go to Arthur's flat, he decides, and wait for Arthur to show up. Maybe being back in Arthur's place will help him stop feeling like he's about to squirm out of his skin entirely.

Arthur's not at his flat. Merlin wanders through it, feeling only vaguely creepy for going in because Arthur left the door unlocked, the idiot, and looks at the photographs Arthur has on the wall. Merlin doesn't know much about art or photography but he can tell Arthur's really good, has a knack for deciding what will make a good picture into something beautiful, something captivating. He sits on the sofa and picks at one of the throw pillows, turning it nervously around in his hands and running his fingers through the beaded fringe. He wonders where Arthur went today, if his meeting with Lance was as spectacularly awkward and horrible as Merlin's was, if he had to go for a long run after to clear his head. Mostly he wonders when Arthur will get home; it's almost time for Merlin to show up, and Arthur isn't here yet.

Maybe, Merlin wonders, maybe Arthur meant at the suite? Merlin still has the key card in his pocket, and it's weird, but maybe Arthur thought it would be easier, maybe he was just used to meeting Merlin there. He ignores the little twinge that thought brings, and heads back out the door. It's not that far; he'll walk over and see if Arthur's there, and if he's not then maybe he'll be home by the time Merlin gets back.

_Home_ , Merlin realises; the word had slipped into his thoughts without Merlin really noticing it, and it feels comfortable, as if it belongs to Arthur, to wherever Arthur is. It sparks a little warmth inside him while he jogs down the stairs and out of Arthur's building, and he smiles up at the cloudless blue sky. He'll find Arthur, and they'll talk about this whole maybe-possibly-being-in-love thing and sort it all out, and then maybe they'll go out to dinner again, only this time Merlin won't drink a bottle of wine by himself, and they'll go home -- it doesn't matter which flat, Merlin's or Arthur's -- and probably have fantastic sex and fall asleep together.

He could get used to being in love, Merlin decides, and sets off on the familiar road to Arthur's hotel.

:::

Arthur considers skipping his meeting with Lance, but he figures Lance would just track him down anyway, and Arthur doesn't want to think of what Lance would say about _that_ on top of everything else. So he drags himself to Lance's house and lingers on the doorstep for a good five minutes before he knocks, hoping reality will magically realign itself so that none of this is actually happening. Reality is a bitch, though, so Lance's door stays in front of him, with Lance behind it and probably still nearly speechless with fury.

When he finally knocks on the door, Gwen opens it, wearing a pretty yellow summer dress, her handbag slung over one shoulder. "Hello, Arthur," she says, giving him a tiny smile. "Lance is waiting for you in his office."

Arthur tries a smile of his own, but it comes out feeling twisted and strange. He likes Gwen, but he doesn't know her very well, not enough to tell if she's being nice because she's always nice or if she's being nice because he's about to be murdered by her fiance. So he just steps aside and lets her walk past him down the steps before turning to look inside the house again. He squares his shoulders and takes a breath before stepping inside. Lance is a reasonable man, he tells himself. There's no need to be nervous.

The meeting is a hundred times worse than Arthur imagined. He's never seen Lance this angry, never imagined that Lance was anything but a calm and gentle soul.

"You're supposed to be a _professional_ , Arthur," Lance says, not quite yelling, and Arthur clenches his hands.

"I am a professional!" he retorts. "I'm a complete professional, and you know it--"

"I don't," Lance interrupts. "Because what you're doing now is about the least professional thing you could have ever done. Taking Merlin to your flat? Seeing him outside of work -- I know you have, don't lie to me. Leon saw you two at dinner the other night. What is it, Arthur, have you been making a little extra on the side? The work I give you isn't enough anymore and you have to take on your own clients?"

"No!" Arthur says, because Lance has it wrong, has it all wrong. "That's not why -- I get it, it was stupid, okay? But I'm not making money off of him; it's not..." he stops, because he doesn't know how to end the sentence. He hasn't been charging Merlin, that's true, but he doesn't know what to call what they have. They just _are_ ; Arthur can't quantify it, can't explain it to Lance, because Merlin isn't a set of words he can put together. Merlin's a warmth lodged deep inside, the shiver that runs along Arthur's skin when he sees Merlin curled up and sleeping on Arthur's sheets.

Lance swears under his breath. "Fine, you're not charging him. How long have you been fucking him for free?" he snaps, and Arthur wants to hit something.

"It isn't like that," he says, tense, strained, because Merlin's not just some shag, not just a lay like the rest of the punters that come through Lance. "It's not -- Merlin's different. _I'm_ different when I'm with him."

"So from the very beginning, then. God, Arthur, are you a _complete_ idiot?"

Arthur doesn't look at Lance, concentrates instead on staring at his hands still clenched together in his lap, but he can feel Lance's eyes on his face.

"You're not in love with him, Arthur," Lance says at last, anger giving way just a little to weariness.

Arthur does look up at that, straightens up in his chair in a rush, all the emotion that's been whirling around inside him finally spilling over. "How do you know?" he spits out, furious, because Lance _doesn't_ know, can't possibly know anything about it, about how Merlin makes Arthur feel: like he can maybe do something else with his life, something that matters.

"You're still working for me."

Arthur has a whole scathing comeback prepared for Lance, and it's going to completely prove Lance wrong and convince him that Arthur really is in love with Merlin and that's why he buys him orange juice and gives up whole afternoons just to lie on Merlin's bed and listen to him type and mutter furiously to the texts piled on his desk and doesn't regret a minute of it, but then the reality of Lance's words sinks in.

"It's just my job," he says. "Merlin knows that." The words sound hollow even to him. Merlin had practically run out that morning after Lance's call, after being reminded that Arthur doesn't have a cozy office job somewhere, that Merlin isn't the only one he rolls onto his back for.

_It would have been nice to be enough_ , Merlin had said about his ex, and yeah, he'd been at least four sheets to the wind at the time, but Arthur can't get the look on Merlin's face out of his mind: like he blamed himself for the bastard's wandering ways, like he'd always thought that if he'd pushed a little harder, been a little better, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did.

Arthur thinks about how wrecked Merlin must have been to even go to Lance in the first place, thinks about all the clients he's had while he's been seeing Merlin, all the men he's had in his bed, and something twists deep in his stomach, a visceral pain.

Lance is scowling again, the very furrows of his face radiating displeasure as he gets slowly to his feet, and Arthur remembers now why no one fucks with Lance. "This ends now," he tells Arthur, and there's steel in his calm voice. "You've been dipping into two honeypots, Arthur, and now you have to choose; you can't have Merlin and keep your job. It isn't good for the agency for you to have a bit on the side, and," he hesitates for a fraction of a second, "it isn't fair to Merlin. He deserves more than what you're giving him, and so do I."

Arthur stares at Lance for a long moment. This job is all he has; Lance has given him everything, has been the best boss, the best friend Arthur's ever had, and Lance _knows_ that, the bastard. Arthur can't even imagine giving it all up, just like that. It isn't that easy.

Merlin's face flashes in front of him again, grief and doubt heavy in his eyes behind the heady haze of wine, and Arthur's gut clenches. He doesn't want Merlin to ever look like that because of him, because of something Arthur did, and there, he supposes, is his answer.

"Okay," he says, drawing a deep breath and meeting Lance's gaze squarely. "Okay."

:::

Merlin's become so used to just walking into this suite, used to Arthur just being around, waiting for Merlin to come back from class with a smile and a kiss just to tell him _I'm happy to see you_ , that he doesn't bother knocking.

It's hard to see at first, because all the blinds are drawn, the room murky in the half-light that filters through the curtains, but Merlin can still hear just fine, and at the first moan he freezes, his heart going utterly still in his chest.

"Arthur?"

He calls out the name before his eyes fully adjust, before he looks at the bed and sees all too clearly what he's interrupted: Arthur on his back, his legs spread, pushing up to meet the thrusts of some stranger, his fingers digging in and leaving long red marks on the man's naked back. Merlin can't move, can't breathe; all he can do is stare and stare as the seconds drag by, trapped by denial and disbelief.

"Fuck, Arthur, so sweet," the man growls with another hard roll of his hips. "So tight for me." His voice is deep, choked with pleasure; Arthur groans breathlessly, and Merlin needs to leave _right the fuck now_ before he does anything stupid. He turns away blindly, reaching out for the door handle and yanking it open so hard the door crashes against the wall.

The bed creaks a little, and he hears Arthur's voice saying: "Merlin?" but he doesn't look back, just lets the door slam shut behind him and almost staggers away down the hall. The image of Arthur in bed with another man hangs in front of him, all naked limbs and surging thrusts, the gasping moans still ringing in his ears. It's sickening in its familiarity, because it isn't exactly a new thing for Merlin to walk in on his boyfriends having sex with other men -- he should have _expected_ this, should never have let himself trust anyone this much again -- but there's a new level of wrenching agony to it, because it's _Arthur_ , and Merlin had thought, he'd really thought...

There are familiar-sounding footsteps behind him, running, and Merlin increases his pace, trying to get to the lift before they reach him.

"Merlin," Arthur says, grabbing Merlin's arm, but Merlin yanks it out of his grip and keeps going, jabbing at the call button with a shaking finger. "Merlin, look at me."

Merlin looks up out of force of habit, and regrets it. Arthur's naked, as if he'd run out in too much of a hurry to bother putting clothes on. Merlin looks away again quickly, trying to swallow against the sour bile rising in his throat, and concentrates on not throwing up all over the expensive carpeting. It's one thing to know Arthur's probably still seeing clients, but Merlin's been so good about ignoring that, and coming face to face with this, with Arthur on the job, is too much for him. There's a small, treacherous part of him that still wants to wrap his arms around Arthur, bury his face in the curve of Arthur's throat and forget everything, but Arthur's skin is shining with sweat from fucking someone else, his lips are bruised from kissing a mouth that isn't Merlin's, and Merlin should have known better than to ever come here.

"Merlin," Arthur repeats, sounding desperate. "It's not -- this isn't what it looks like."

"I'm pretty sure it's exactly what it looks like," Merlin says; his voice is rough, scraped bare and ragged on the edges, but it holds steady.

"If you'd just let me explain--"

Jesus, Merlin thinks frantically, can't the lift come any faster? He presses the call button again. "I have all the explanation I need."

But Arthur's stubborn and an idiot, and he makes another grab for Merlin's arm. "This is the last time, I swear; it was just that it was too late to cancel the appointment, and he's an important client, and I promised Lance I would--"

Merlin wants to laugh, to cry, because doesn't Arthur know he's heard it all before? For an instant, Merlin sees brown hair instead of blond, a slimmer, taller figure where Arthur's muscular and just barely shorter than Merlin; hears a light, musical voice promising _this is the last time, the very last_ , saying _I'm so sorry Merlin; baby, don't go, don't leave me alone_.

He steps out of Arthur's reach. "It's over." He feels his mouth shape the words, hears his own voice, but it's like the cord tying him to reality has snapped and he's floating somewhere above his own head. He sees and doesn't see Arthur's face crumple, his shoulders slump. "I'm done; I can't... I'm not doing this anymore."

"I gave it up," Arthur says. "Merlin, I gave everything up for you, I handed in my resignation today."

The cold, distant feeling doesn't budge. "Excuse me if I don't believe you. You hardly look retired."

Neither of them say the word, but it hangs between them. _Whore_. For the first time, Merlin thinks he actually understands everything that means.

Arthur's angry now, his hands clenching on empty air. "You knew all along what I am, what I do, and _now_ you're letting it bother you? It's piss-poor timing for that, you know."

"Maybe," Merlin replies, and the lift's finally arrived, thank God. He steps in and turns to look Arthur full in the face one last time. "Maybe I should have let it bother me earlier." He almost says goodbye, but that feels wrong, feels too normal for this. Instead he says: "Don't call me."

The doors slide shut silently on Arthur's broken expression, and Merlin makes it all the way to the lobby before he has to run for the bathroom to be sick.

:::

Merlin is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if three days is too long to go without a shower or if he can justify a fourth, when there is a knock and Will pushes his door open.

"Mate?" he says, holding up Merlin's mobile. "You know someone named Arthur?"

Merlin gives a dry laugh. "No."

He can feel Will's eyes on him, at the edges of his vision sees him press the phone to his ear and say, "Sorry, he's working." He pauses and then says "Yeah, I'm his best mate. I think I'd know if he had a boyfriend." Another pause and then, "Well, you must be mistaken." He shakes his head and says "Yeah, I'll be sure and tell him."

He ends the call and tosses the phone on Merlin's bed and then sits down beside him. "You wanna talk about it?"

"No, not really. Not at all, actually."

"All right."

He can sense Will looking around the room and is suddenly overcome with how pathetic he must look: unshaven, greasy hair, empty crisp packets littering the floor.

"Listen," says Will. "Do you wanna know what I think?"

"Will--"

"I think," he interrupts, "that this guy, whoever he is, is not worth tossing out everything, you know? All the work you've done. And I know you're not in here revising, so don't say you are. And that ceiling you're so keen on? Not the Sistine Chapel, mate. So here's what we're gonna do. Curry. Alcohol if you feel like you need it. A good night's sleep and then a huge pot of coffee, and then back to work, yeah?"

"Okay," says Merlin, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"Right," Will says, and he stands up and smacks Merlin on the leg. "First though, a shower. You stink."

So they do just that. Merlin showers, turns the water as hot as he can tolerate it and stands there in the stream until it goes stone fucking cold. Then he pulls on his rattiest t-shirt, the one with the hole in the neck that Will can never resist putting his finger through, and lets Will take him out for dinner. He declines the alcohol and then later, when Will tucks him in with a mocking kiss to his forehead, Merlin sleeps like a log.

:::

It takes Merlin two solid weeks to work up the nerve to call Lance, and by then he's almost convinced he's on the mend. After all, he only wants to sit down in the shower and cry every other day now, and that has to count for something. Lance is perhaps a little too cheerful as he invites Merlin round to dinner, but God knows Merlin could do with some cheer, so he takes a shower and gets dressed.

"What's this?" Lance asks when he opens the door, pointing at his chin.

"Ah," Merlin says, rubbing a hand over his beard. "Just, you know, trying something new."

"I like it," Lance replies, motioning Merlin inside. "Makes you look like the lazy student you actually are. And come inside, I've a sauce bubbling on the hob."

Merlin follows him into the kitchen and gives an involuntary moan at the smells filling the room.

"Fresh tomatoes are summer's only redeeming quality, and god, but do they make the whole ordeal worthwhile." He grabs a huge wooden spoon and gives the pot a stir. "Because let's face it, tomatoes kind of suck, you know? Unless they're fresh off the vine. And these, mate, I picked these this morning."

Merlin finds himself reaching for a spoon before he can stop himself; Lance smacks his hand away. "Dinner is in fifteen minutes," he says. "You want a drink?"

Lance has very specific rules about what he will and won't serve with any particular meal, so Merlin usually lets him choose. He knows, though, that any pasta with a tomato sauce calls for red wine and he doesn't think he can stomach a single drop. So he says, "Just water."

Lance raises an eyebrow. "Water?"

"I've still got a bit of writing to do tonight."

Lance fills a glass from the tap and then grabs a block of cheese from the fridge and starts shaving it into a big bowl of lettuce. "You're getting close now, yeah?"

Merlin exhales and tries not to feel overwhelmed. "Very nearly. It feels like I'm so far behind where I need to be, but--" He spreads his arms out, palms up. "I'll just have to do what I can do."

"Yeah," says Lance. "But I bet everyone feels like that."

Merlin wants to say that not everyone has spent the last ten weeks having their brains shagged out instead of worrying about their defense, but he thinks better of it. "Maybe."

Lance opens his mouth to ask another question when his phone goes. His eyes dart to his office and then to Merlin.

"It's fine," Merlin says, trying to keep his voice light.

"Okay." He wipes his hands on a towel and tosses it on the counter. "Stir the sauce."

He disappears to his office and the most horrible sensation of déjà vu sweeps over Merlin, threatening to overcome him, and he hops off the stool before it has a chance, snatching up the spoon and giving the bubbling pot several vigorous stirs. None of this is Lance's fault, Merlin knows that. This mess is entirely of his own making. He knew better, knew exactly what he was risking when he went back to Arthur's suite that night after the bookshop. He may have lost Arthur, but at least he hasn't lost Lance, and for that, Merlin is grateful. It isn't easy, being here, knowing that Lance is in the next room, possibly scheduling an appointment for Arthur at this very moment, and while Merlin doesn't know exactly how to deal with that, he's willing to try and learn.

"Anything burned?"

Merlin forces a smile to his face. "Nothing."

"Oh, go on then," Lance says. "Taste it."

He does, and it's brilliant of course, but Lance seems to have brought a cool air back into the room with him, a horrible predictable awkwardness, and the taste of disappointment is freshly bitter on Merlin's tongue. He makes the appropriate yummy noises and gives Lance a feeble smile, which he returns, sliding around Merlin to take up a knife and start chopping vegetables.

Merlin has always loved listening to Lance chop stuff. He finds the steady _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of the knife against the wooden butcher's block soothing, but now it just feels like one more way to mark the passage of time; when Lance starts slicing a pepper, it's everything Merlin can do to not draw back his arm and punch him right in the stomach.

Merlin draws a shaky breath and clutches the spoon tightly. When he can't bear it another second, he says "How is Arthur?"

The motion of Lance's knife stops and Merlin hurries on, "Sorry. Sorry, that's--"

"No, Merlin." Lance throws him a sideways glance. "I -- I haven't spoken to Arthur in weeks."

Merlin frowns. "How is that possible?"

"He -- he quit, Merlin."

It feels suddenly as if all the air is being pressed out of Merlin's lungs. "What?"

"He quit. I thought --" Lance shakes his head. "After that morning. I mean, I had one last client, asked specifically for him, and he agreed so I'd let him out of his contract. But, Merlin, didn't he tell you?"

Everything blurs a bit around the edges of Merlin's vision. "That doesn't matter," he tells Lance. "It doesn't matter. It's too -- with Arthur, it's too--" He shakes his head.

"But I thought..." He gestures weakly at the table, which Merlin realises has been set for three.

"Where's Gwen?"

"At her dad's."

And then every bit of anger he has at Lance leaves his body in a great whoosh of air. "Lance."

"I'm trying to be a good friend."

"You _are_ a good friend. You're the best. And I'm sorry, I wish--"

"Me too, Merlin. I wish I'd never done this."

Merlin turns to face him so quickly he splatters sauce all over Lance's perfect counter tops. "Don't say that."

"Why ever not?"

" _Lance_." Merlin picks up the discarded towel and starts wiping up the sauce, pressing his mouth closed, unable to find the words to say that no matter how it hurts, he will never regret falling in love with Arthur.

"Merlin," Lance says, closing his hand over Merlin's and stilling his motions.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look exhausted; you're skin and bones."

"Well," Merlin says, and the lightness in his voice sounds as forced as it feels. "You'd better feed me then, hadn't you?"

"Merlin."

"Lance, please."

Lance gives his hand a squeeze and says, "Fine. Fine, then, you worthless layabout, get those plates."

And for a little while, at least, Merlin is able to pretend everything is almost okay.

:::

Summer passes quickly that year and fades away almost unnoticed. Merlin spends the majority of it holed away in the library writing and editing, making sure the appropriate paperwork is filled out by the appropriate people, careful to keep busy enough that he isn't forced to examine the gaping pain in his chest.

August tumbles along and summer gives up her fight without much fanfare, and when every last page has been read and reread and edited and agonized over and finally, _finally_ submitted and Merlin is having a celebratory lie in, he realizes that the agonizing, broken feeling of hurt and betrayal is gone and has been replaced by something else: simply the ache of loving Arthur, of having him for so short a time and then losing him. This feeling is no kinder than the other, but this one, at least, is tolerable. Merlin counts that as a small grace. He imagines it is something he may never quite learn to live without.

And with that thought fixed in his mind, Merlin closes his eyes and thinks another quarter of an hour in bed would do him some good when--

"What the _fuck_!"

Merlin sits bolt upright in the bed, icy water dripping down his face. From the doorway, Will is doubled over laughing, a pink water pistol in his hand.

"Blimey, I've been wanting to do that for ages."

"Really," says Merlin, wiping his face with his sleeve. "You've been wanting to get your arse kicked for ages?"

"What are you doing in bed?" Will says, gesturing with the water pistol. "Your heart isn't broken again, is it?"

"No," Merlin replies, standing up and stalking towards Will. "My heart is not broken." He makes a grab for the water pistol, but Will spins out of his reach. "Brilliant," he says. "I want to show you something."

The "something" turns out to be a ten-year-old, cobalt blue Ford, which Will circles proudly before spreading his arms wide and saying "Well?"

"Is this yours?"

"Yeah, isn't it brilliant?"

"Will, why on Earth did you buy a car?"

"I'm celebrating, mate," Will says. He grins. "I got a job."

"A job?"

"Yeah, a real job, with a desk and a lunch break and everything."

Merlin grins. "From that job fair last month?"

"The very one." Will unlocks the doors. "Get in."

"You do know how to drive, don't you?"

Will grins terrifyingly.

It turns out Will actually does know how to drive, and not even at the breakneck speeds Merlin had been scared of. They roll down the windows and turn the radio up and Merlin leans his head back against the headrest and lets the wind whip at his hair.

“Brilliant, right?” shouts Will.

“Brilliant,” Merlin agrees.

They drive around aimlessly for a while before ending up at a park. They find a sunny spot amid the trees and sprawl out on the grass.

“I’m glad about your job,” Merlin says, turning his face towards the sun.

“Yeah. You’ve finished your dissertation and I’ve got a job; we’re almost like proper grown ups.”

Merlin cracks one eye and surveys Will’s tattered jeans and his own trainers, which are badly in need of replacing. “Very nearly.”

“There’s uh--" Will plucks a strand of grass and tosses it into the wind. “I wanted to tell you something else too.”

“So tell me.”

"I uh--"

Merlin looks up at Will’s face. “You uh?”

“I met someone.”

“Oh, Will, no,” Merlin moans, kicking at Will’s foot. “Don’t break my heart.”

“You know you’ll always be my number one,” he replies, poking Merlin in the ribs.

“Oi, stop it.” He catches Will’s hand and pushes it away. “Tell me about her. Is she nice?”

Will laughs. “Nice? She’s... bloody brilliant. Works for one of the biggest labs in London, not one that would give me a second look, but Morgana--"

“That’s her name?”

Will nods. “She’s Irish. Gorgeous. Green eyes and this amazing hair, hangs all the way--" He gestures vaguely at his waist. “And she’s arrogant.” He laughs. “Unbelievably arrogant. Knows just how smart she is and how beautiful she is. But she’s kind, you know? She’s really... I’m actually sort of crazy about her.”

“Why William, listen to you. I think you’re falling in love.”

Will rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not that. We’ve only been out three times, two dinners and a coffee, but, I dunno, I really like her. So I wanted to tell you.”

Merlin can’t help but grin. In all the years he’s known Will, he’s never mentioned anything about any girl, unless he was bragging about what a good lay she was. That he’s doing so now makes Merlin feel giggly and fourteen and maybe even a little bit proud. “Good for you, Will. She sounds... I would like to meet whatever woman has tamed you.”

“You’re not--" Will turns his head and shades his eyes. “You’re not upset or anything?”

“Why would I be upset? You do know I’m not actually in love with you, right?”

“Yeah, and thank God for that. It’s just that you had a rough spring. And I didn’t want to... shove your face in it or anything.”

“Will,” Merlin says, pushing himself up and looking down at his best mate, at the person who has seen him through anything and everything for years and years, who knows his middle name and never teases about it, who never remembers birthdays but always sends a postcard when he goes on holiday, and who pulled him out of a heartbreak worse than Merlin ever could have imagined. “I only ever want you to be happy, whatever shape that takes. Alright?”

Will grins, a bit of a blush on his cheeks. “Yeah, alright.”

“You can always tell me anything.”

And then Will’s face turns serious as he says, “Yeah, you too.”

Merlin frowns. “Why so serious?”

Will yanks up another tuft of grass. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Alright.”

“How come you never told me about Arthur?”

Merlin stands up and brushes his jeans off. "We should get back."

"Nope," says Will. "We're not going anywhere until you talk. And I've got the keys."

"Then I'll walk," Merlin snaps, and he's prepared to do exactly that but Will latches onto his ankle, holding firm. "You will not. It's ten kilometres to the flat and --"

"What is this, then? You're fucking kidnapping me?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," says Will. "You got into the car willingly. And calm down; you swear too much when you're angry."

"Look," says Merlin, and God, he really _is_ angry, furious actually; his hands are shaking. It's been months and months and Will has been so understanding, hasn't pushed at all and for that Merlin has been unimaginably grateful. Now he's stuck in some godforsaken park and Will's fingernails are digging into his ankle. "I get that you're --" he waves his hang vaguely, "with your new car and your new job and your new fucking girlfriend, but that's nothing to do with me, alright?"

"I never said it was."

"Then stop acting like -- I don't know -- like fucking Yoda or something."

Will grins and says, "Yoda?" but Merlin doesn't want to laugh this off. He wants to rage and storm, to scream at the entire world, but Will is the only one he has in front of him.

"You don't know, Will--"

"That's because you won't _tell_ me."

"Fine." Merlin crosses his arms over his chest, shivering in the cool air. "Fine, Will. What do you want me to start with? That I was so devastated after Matthew that I went to Lance -- yeah," Merlin says when Will's eyes go wide. "That's right. Arthur's a hooker. Was a hooker. Whatever, it doesn't matter, because I fucking loved him. And he broke my heart."

"Merlin--"

"No!" Merlin shouts. Now that he's started, he can't seem to stop. Everything he's been holding in for months, every dark and horrible thing, is spilling out and Will is staring at him with shocked eyes. "No, Will. You don't -- everything Matthew did, Arthur did it a dozen times over. Only he got paid for it. And I--" Merlin gives a bitter laugh. "I went and fell in love with him anyway and I don't know which part is more pathetic, me or him, because Arthur is -- he is the most amazing... he takes these photos, Will, and they're beautiful. And when I looked at them, it was like -- it was like seeing who he really was. You know? What he'd be instead. And I _miss_ him, Will. Goddamn, I fucking miss him."

Slowly, Merlin becomes aware that he's sitting again, his legs pulled up to his chest, forehead on his knees. Will's hand is warm and solid at the small of his back, and his voice is soft.

"I thought you were doing better."

Merlin snorts and wipes his nose on his jeans. "Me too."

Will is rubbing small circles onto his back and Merlin can feel himself calming down by degrees. When his breath is no longer unsteady, he turns his head, resting his cheek on his knee and says, "Thanks."

The corner of Will's mouth turns up. "Welcome."

"You're a good mate."

"Yeah, well, your mum's a good cook."

Merlin feels a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "We should get back."

Later, when they're sitting on the floor watching Doctor Who, a pizza between them, Will says, "I was thinking."

"Uh oh."

Will flicks a mushroom at him. "I think you should call Arthur."

"Will, don't."

"I'm serious."

"No, I understand that. But --"

"You said _was_. He _was_ a hooker."

Merlin picks at his pizza crust, then tosses it back into the box. "Lance said he quit. But I can't, Will, I honestly can't."

"You were happy with him," Will presses on. "I mean, when he wasn't breaking your heart and leaving you to wallow in filth. I've never seen you that happy."

"I'm not exactly _un_ happy now, Will."

"Well I think you deserve more than just 'not unhappy'."

Merlin exhale, swearing under his breath. Loving Arthur, it's something larger than Merlin is, it fills up too much space inside his chest, and losing him... Merlin isn't sure he's strong enough to withstand that a second time. "I can't, Will. I understand what you're saying, truly, and I appreciate it. But--"

"Merlin--"

"No, Will. I can't risk that again. Please just drop this."

Will opens his mouth like he's about to barrel on, but then seems to think better of it. He turns back to the telly and says "Daleks again."

Merlin hums his agreement. They finish the show in silence. Every time Merlin glances at Will, Will looks quickly away.

:::

Autumn turns cold quickly as the trees give up their leaves. Will doesn’t mention Arthur again, but his words are clanging around in Merlin’s head so loudly he can hardly sleep some nights. Love, he thinks, is out of the question. But he does miss Arthur, misses his laugh and his horrible jokes and if Merlin isn’t around, Arthur will never eat his vegetables and will probably shrivel up and die at a young age of diverticulitis or something.

Friends, he thinks, rolling the word around in his mouth. Friends with Arthur. It’s... probably madness. Merlin is probably still a little too in love with Arthur to even be considering it, but listening to reason when it comes to Arthur has never been one of his strong points. 

No matter how many times he tried, Merlin never was able to delete Arthur’s number from his phone. He pulls it out and opens a new text message and starts typing. He spends ten minutes hunched over the keypad, typing a long message detailing ground rules and stipulations for the ‘forging of a new friendship’, and then, with a disgusted noise at himself, deletes the entire thing. He types in _coffee?_ and hits 'send' before he can chicken out. He nods at himself, satisfied, and then promptly falls off his chair when the phone beeps.

“Jesus,” he says. He grabs his phone and, from the floor, opens the new message. It says simply, _yes_.

“Fuck.” Merlin pauses, thumbs poised over the phone. He types in _when?_.

It takes no more than ten seconds for the phone to beep again. _now?_.

Merlin laughs shakily. _Where?_

_Coffee shop_.

He exhales loudly. _Twenty minutes?_

His phone beeps before he can even put it down. _Yes_ says the new message. And then, half a second later, another one. Merlin opens it. _thank you_.

Hands trembling, Merlin goes to brush his teeth.

:::

Despite Merlin having got him nearly addicted to their lattes, Arthur hasn't been back to the coffee shop in ages, not since their breakup. The energy of the place is all wrong; it feels like it belongs to Merlin, to the two of them together somehow, so Arthur stays away. Besides, he can't run the risk of running into Merlin; there is no way he's prepared to deal with that. But when Merlin texts to suggest coffee it's the first place Arthur thinks of and he suggests it before he has time to think better of it.

The place is heart-stoppingly familiar, warm and cosy and smelling of coffee and old books. Arthur orders and scans the room for Merlin's shock of dark hair and, with his heart banging around recklessly in his chest, finds him in the farthest corner, bent low over a book. He's wearing a tattered blue shirt that Arthur used to love to push up over his stomach and run his hands beneath as well as a rather impressive beard, a dark shadow along his jaw. He looks not like the kid Arthur first thought him to be or the 24-year-old student Arthur knew him to be, but like the man he'll spend the rest of his life becoming. For several seconds, Arthur considers turning and fleeing, but then Merlin looks up and sees him. His face lights up and he grins, lifting a hand in greeting. Arthur grabs his coffee and picks his way across the room, weaving between the tables.

"Hey," he says, dropping into the chair across from Merlin's. He raises his eyebrows and points at his chin.

"Hey." Merlin grins and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah."

His smile makes Arthur feel like some dark knot inside his chest is untangling. "I like it."

"Yeah? Lance says it makes me look like a worthless layabout."

Arthur feels something like wistfulness in the pit of his stomach. "How is Lance?"

"Good. He's good. He and Gwen finally set a date for the wedding."

"Really? I thought they were going to be one of those couples that just stayed engaged forever."

"Did you know that apparently, the only person scarier than Lance, surprisingly, is Guinevere?"

"I have long suspected."

Merlin tosses his head back and laughs. When he looks back at Arthur, his eyes crinkled at the corners, he breathes out and says "God, it's good to see you."

Arthur is starting to feel like his face may crack from grinning. "You too."

"I thought this would be weirder."

"But you rang anyway."

"Technically, I texted."

"Well, if you want to get technical--"

They grin at one another, and it would be easy, it would be so simple for Arthur to forget that Merlin isn't his anymore and that it isn't his right to stare besottedly at him across tables. And in fact, he does, just a little. For just a moment, he lets himself sit there with Merlin and look his fill. Eventually, Merlin clears his throat and looks down into his coffee cup.

Arthur sits back in his chair. "So when is the wedding?"

"Next March," Merlin says. "Gwen is determined to be a spring bride."

"Well, here." Arthur pulls out his wallet and slides one of his business cards across the table to Merlin. "Give her this."

"What's this?" he says.

"Have Gwen give me a call. I'll give her a special rate."

"This is --" Merlin turns the card over in his hands. "You're actually doing photography now?"

"Working on it. It's not -- just weddings and things, nothing earth-shattering, but it's a start." He wants to tell Merlin how hard it is, how he has trouble making ends meet sometimes now, and how bloody impossible it is some days to take picture after picture after picture of people so happily and obviously in love, but how at the end of the day, he sleeps well, so well, and how he feels like maybe this is the person he was meant to be all along.

"So you're --" He presses his mouth closed.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'll give it to her."

Merlin pulls his own wallet out and slips the card inside and Arthur finds himself wishing, more than anything, that he still had the right to reach over and tangle those fingers with his own.

"How have you been?"

"I'm, uh--" Merlin clears his throat and runs a finger along the rim of his mug. "I'm good. Finished my dissertation."

"Wow."

"Yeah." Merlin grins and shakes his head.

"That's fantastic. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

And then, drawing a deep breath, Arthur steels himself and says, "So, listen."

"Arthur, let's not."

He realises his hands are clenched into fists on the table. He spreads his fingers out and presses his palms down. "No, Merlin, I need to say this. Please, just... that night -- and you don't have to believe me, Merlin, but that night -- I really did turn in my resignation to Lance. He had one guy, a bloke who asked specifically--I should have said no. I'd already broken about fifty of Lance's rules and was in breach of contract, but he said he'd let me out of it if--" He takes a shaky breath. "I should have said no. I'm sorry."

"Arthur."

"I just want you to know that."

"Did you know--" Merlin looks down into his coffee and laughs. "That first night, I wasn't even -- I was so fucked up, after Matthew, and all I wanted was something, just for one night, something that wouldn't break my fucking heart.

The words go through Arthur like a knife. "Merlin."

He holds up a hand. "And I've been... these last few months, I keep thinking of a thousand ways, a thousand times I could have stopped it. But even now, after everything, Arthur, I still wouldn't choose any of them."

Arthur's head snaps up; he meets Merlin's gaze, shocking blue and bright. He's on the verge of just climbing over the fucking table and burying his face in the curve of Merlin's neck when Merlin says, "I would love it, Arthur, really if we could be friends."

And there it is. More than he expected, less that he wants, and so painful Arthur feels it like a physical blow. He winces, pressing his eyes closed. He takes a deep breath and then opens his eyes, meeting Merlin's gaze. He nods. "Yeah."

Merlin exhales. "Yeah."

"Friends."

Merlin nods. "Probably for the best."

"Right. So then." Arthur pushes back from the table. "If that's sorted--"

"Wait a second-"

"What, Merlin?" says Arthur. His voice is abrupt, rude, and he doesn't even try to temper it.

Merlin frowns and shakes his head. "I don't really think you're the one who gets to be angry in this."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were in charge of my feelings now."

"Hang on."

"What do you want from me, Merlin?"

"I want--"

"Friends," Arthur says, spits the word out of his mouth. "Right. I got that part."

"So what's the --"

"I don't want to be your _friend_ , Merlin. I mean, honestly. I don't want to ... I don't know, go to a pub with you and have a pint with you and watch football with you. I don't want to stand here, and watch you be..." Arthur unclenches his fists and presses his palms flat against the table. "I don't want to stand here, to stand idly by and see you fall in love with someone else, knowing that ... that you and I, that's the only thing that ever made sense to me. So no, Merlin, no. I do not want to be your friend." 

"Arthur."

Arthur stands up. He lets his eyes rake over Merlin's upturned face one last time, then he shakes his head. "This was a bad idea."

" _Arthur_."

Numbly, Arthur moves to the door. His hands are shaking so badly it takes him two tries to get it open, and when he does, the cool autumn breeze whips at his face, shocking him back to his senses. He turns right, then changes his mind and turns left, takes half a dozen steps, then half a dozen more, quickly, lengthening his stride, desperate to put as much space as possible between himself and everything else. Horrible, humiliating, pleading things are churning in his stomach, clawing their way up his throat. He can't believe what just happened, can't believe what he just _told_ Merlin... he chokes down a sob. He should have known better than to think anyone... He breaks into a run, dodging a mum with a gaggle of kids, then a laughing couple, arms wrapped 'round one another. He dismisses their shocked looks and sucks cold air into his lungs; as long as he keeps moving...

Then his arm is yanked backwards; someone is pulling him, spinning him around, and he crashes into a thin chest. And then, _God_ , then the dearest, most familiar hands in the world are cupping his face, tilting his head up, and Merlin's mouth is on his. Arthur flings his body at Merlin, squeezing his eyes shut. And this... this is everything in the world that's been missing, the only thing in the world that matters, the thing that grounds him and keeps his soul from flying apart.

"Merlin," he chokes out.

"Arthur, Arthur."

He presses his forehead against Merlin's, relishing the feel of their skin pressed together, and wraps his arms around Merlin's waist, sliding one hand up to find the hollow between his shoulder blades and pressing them even closer together. He never wants to be farther from this man than he is right now.

"I thought--"

"That's your problem, then, isn't it?" Merlin murmurs into his hair. "You know better than to think."

He laughs, feels the way the warm air of his breath raises gooseflesh along Merlin's neck. Merlin shivers and says "It's all right, Arthur. You don't have to run anymore."

And no matter how perfect Merlin feels in his arms, Arthur can't let one like that fly past. He leans back, looks Merlin in the eye and raises eyebrows. "Merlin."

"Oh, come on. I'm trying to be romantic. This is like something out of a movie, okay? I'm trying to have a moment."

Arthur grins and presses his face back into Merlin's neck. "We can have as many moments as you want."

They're still in the middle of the pavement, and Arthur can feel people brushing past them as they go about their shopping. A huge gust of wind sends a storm of leaves through the air, whipping around their ankles, and across the street someone wolf whistles. There are a hundred, a thousand, a million things that need saying between them. There are so many things to sort and decide and apologize for and Arthur knows that this thing between them, whatever he and Merlin are together, it will never be easy or simple.

But in this moment, Arthur doesn't even care. He just closes his eyes and clings.


End file.
